


Bane

by Roselightfairy



Series: Finding a Voice [7]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Don't Try This At Home, Gen, Half-Baked Criminal Investigations, Hippie Elves, I don't know what I'm doing but neither do they, I researched things but when they didn't work I made stuff up, Illness, Ithilien, Legolas centric, M/M, One-Dimensional Antagonists, Poison, Single POV, Vomiting, Whump, anxious!Legolas, happy Finding a Voice 'versary to me, weird elf magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-13 23:28:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 38,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16901823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roselightfairy/pseuds/Roselightfairy
Summary: Bane,n.A cause of great distress or annoyance.Archaic:Something, typically poison, that causes death.The tenth anniversary of Ithilien is meant to be a celebration of the triumph of healing and love over darkness and evil.  But when Gimli’s life is threatened shortly after the feast, Legolas must find out who is responsible – and must contend with the hatred that still threatens to keep their people divided.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Astart3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astart3/gifts).



> So, as I’ve mentioned in basically every story for this series ever, I’ve found a niche in fandom writing Legolas/Gimli that I’d never had before – one, basically, that entails actual interaction and continuation rather than just dropping stories and running away. And even though these dates might not matter to other people, I can’t help but want to mark it. I posted Finding a Voice a year ago today – which means today is its ‘versary (sorry, can’t help it).
> 
> I had known for a while that I wanted to write something for this, and it was in October, as I was scrolling Whumptober prompts to look for minific ideas, that I noticed day 3: “poisoned.” And at that moment, an idea popped into my mind: an idea not for a minific, but for an actual fic, with – gasp – a Plot. And thus this fic was born.
> 
> A few warnings: given the prompt for this fic, there's a bit of graphic detail, particularly in the depictions of illness, so if that's a squick or a trigger for you, be warned to tread with caution. I'm very self-conscious about all the detail, but it didn't want to go away, so just... be prepared.
> 
> Also, fair warning that this fic has stretched my limits in many, many ways. I’ve never written anything so heavy on invented plot (not guided by canon). I’ve never tried to write an actual antagonist. I’ve absolutely never tried my hand at a whodunit plot. And in many ways, this fic hasn’t lived up to my expectations. I considered not posting it. But I think the project was worthwhile, no matter how it turned out – and I still wanted to give you all something, particularly after sticking with me for a year. I know this is biased in ways that run contrary to a lot of fanon, and consists of a lot of things I don't know how to do... but if you hate it, please direct your hate at the fic and not at me. (And also please don't tell me if you hate it.)
> 
> This fic is gifted to KatherineSilv3r, because of their invaluable help and support in letting me talk through some of this and try to figure it all out, and their kindness when I thought it was all worthless. (I hope there are enough surprises in here to make reading this worthwhile.) But it also goes out, in its way, to every single one of you reading this. Thank you. Seriously.

“All the food is prepared?”

“Prepared and laid out,” said Eleniel patiently.  “The tables with the dishes are set, the cushions are spread out, the stools for any who prefer them are set aside.  All of which you know,” with a significantly-raised eyebrow, “because _you were intimately involved in the preparation_.”

“I know,” Legolas muttered, looking away.  He knew he ought not be so concerned about this, but—it was an important occasion, and many eyes would be on him, and he did not want them to be disappointed.

“Do not fret so,” she said.  “We have all put much effort into this feast—but more important than that is the work we have put into Ithilien itself.”  She gestured around, as though to show him.  “And regardless of what happens tonight, that is what will be remembered.”

Legolas took a breath and followed the motion of her hand—looked around at the trees both youthful and gnarled with age, growing with such health and gratitude that they nearly seemed to glow.  He inhaled the sweet scent of herbs and flowers, laid over the underlying earthy scent of rich soil.  He remembered the way this land had been when they had first come: beauty hiding, smothered under a strangling evil that they had slowly expelled.  He remembered the way they had come to live here, had cleansed the land of so many of the remnants of Sauron’s rule and made it a place to grow and thrive.

He remembered, and he let himself be proud.

“You are right,” he said to Eleniel.  “Tonight is not the deciding moment for our community—we have already made it a home.”

“Exactly.”  She patted his shoulder.  “Now cease your fretting and go wait for your husband—I know that is the only reason for your worries.”

He smiled reluctantly.  “Very well.”

Likely Eleniel was right, and his jitters were only due to Gimli’s lateness.  A raven had come from Aglarond some days ago—some private emergencies had necessitated a rearranging of Gimli’s planned guard, and now instead of many of the friends he had meant to bring, several of his newer guards would accompany him to Ithilien.  The rearrangements—and, in a few cases, some extra training—would require a few more days of preparation, so instead of arriving two days before Ithilien’s ten-year anniversary feast, now they would arrive in just enough time for the celebration.  Hopefully.

Legolas knew that the dwarves would attend only because of Gimli’s invitation, that the main guests of honor were Aragorn and Arwen, as his liege lords—and Faramir and Eowyn, though the mannish settlement of Ithilien was still rather separate from the elves’ domain.  But still, no celebration of the marking of time felt quite right without Gimli.

The dwarves always came from the west, so he found a suitable tree—a sturdy cedar—and climbed up to watch and wait.  It was more peaceful here higher from the ground, and he could see farther in all directions.  So even as he kept his ears open for the distant sound of ponies’ hooves, he let himself gaze out in all directions upon his land.

His land!  What an intoxicating thought that was still—particularly now when he could see how far they had come even in ten short years.  There was still much work to be done, particularly in the lands farther to the east and closer to Mordor, but they had already managed to reform much of it into a settlement that reflected their ties and proximity to men—the trails were wider and clearer than the ones in the forest from which they hailed—even as it retained a dense enough growth of forest for the wood-elves who lived there to make their home.

And they had made it their home.  Legolas had never known such responsibility, and he had feared it at first—how should he live up to his father, to his sister, who had always been meant to take the mantle of leadership upon her shoulders?  But Legolas’s people were fewer than those who dwelt still in Eryn Lasgalen, fewer and closer, and such a reign as his father’s was unnecessary here.  Those who had come here had done so out of a desire to live and work on this land, and a willingness to be near mortal kind as they were not in the forest they had left.  They knew what they needed and what was expected of them, and otherwise they were glad to be left alone.

Truly, Legolas hardly needed to lead, and that was just as well with him.

The breeze changed just slightly, and he tilted his head, trying to catch the faint new sound.  Could it be—?

Yes!  As he turned, he could make out the small cluster of ponies just coming into view from the west over the bridge across the Anduin—and as they drew nearer, he could make out the leader, with his polished mail and his familiar red braids and his expectant smile—

Legolas shimmied down from the tree so quickly he hardly touched the bark, and ran.

He met the dwarves just as they were cresting the hill that sloped down into the groves where Legolas and his companions had made their homes.  “Gimli!” he cried, too overwhelmed with excitement to worry about dignity.

“One moment, one moment!” said Gimli, and ten years were time enough that Legolas no longer doubted the matching delight he heard in Gimli’s voice.  Gimli called his pony to a halt and tumbled from her back, Legolas hovering on the tips of his toes in impatient anticipation, and scarcely had Gimli let his helm fall before Legolas flew into his arms.

“You came,” he said into Gimli’s hair, not caring how he appeared to the accompanying guards.

“Of course I came!”  Gimli’s hand had tangled in Legolas’s hair; his beard tickled Legolas’s collarbone as he smacked a kiss against the curve of his neck.  “Nothing short of the direst disaster could keep me from the celebration of such a worthy occasion.”  He pulled back and held Legolas’s arms, beaming up at him.  “Congratulations, Lord of Ithilien, on ten years of healing and prosperity.”

Legolas blushed at the warmth in Gimli’s sparkling eyes.  “Thank you,” he murmured, pushing a toe into the ground and rotating his ankle in bashful circles.  “Though the congratulations go not only to me, but to all who have worked and lived by my side these last years.”

“Of course.  And I would gladly go and greet them as well—" Gimli squeezed his arms —“but is there not something that must be done first?”

“Oh—yes.”  Legolas turned and made to bow to Gimli’s companions.  “Forgive me for not greeting you sooner—"

Gimli laughed aloud.  “Not that,” he said, and then he was pulling on Legolas’s arms to haul him down for a proper kiss.

Ah, this was what he had needed—the warmth of Gimli’s mouth, the solid strength of his hand cupped at the back of Legolas’s neck, the other around his waist.  Legolas closed his eyes and leaned into the kiss—and for a moment, all was right with the world.  Eleniel was right: all was in readiness for the feast tonight, ten years of work and loving care had gone into it, and Gimli had arrived in time.  What more did Legolas need?

When he withdrew, he hardly had time to scan the faces of the dwarves Gimli had brought with him before Lis had made her way to the front of the small dismounting crowd to greet him as well.  “Good evening, Lord Legolas,” she said, bowing and smiling, “and as my lord has already said, congratulations.”

“Thank you,” he murmured.  “I am glad you were able to come—I had worried when Gimli spoke of changes to his guard that you would be unavailable, and I know some who are looking forward to your arrival.”

“As was I.”  She grinned at him.  “I was fortunate enough to observe Ithilien’s most humble beginnings, and I should be disappointed to miss joining you all to celebrate how far you have come.”

“Speaking of the guard changes,” interrupted Gimli, “I would have you meet those who have not yet visited you here, Legolas.”  He swept an arm out to indicate his guard, drawing Legolas’s eyes to faces both familiar and new.  “Some you know—Althi, of course, and Svi and Northin.”  Legolas smiled at Althi and nodded cordially to the latter two, who had—though not among those he had known in Gondor—come along with Gimli to Aglarond when he had first founded the colony.  “And the remaining three are new: Vinar, Frai, and Torri, who all came from Erebor some two years ago.  They are more commonly tasked with guarding the gates, but volunteered for my personal guard when I came up short.”

“It is good to meet you,” said Legolas, for lack of a more creative greeting.  He vaguely recognized Frai’s face from a previous visit to Aglarond, but the others he did not think he had encountered.  “And I am grateful for your willingness to accompany Gimli here.  This celebration would have been incomplete without his presence.”

“That I can see,” said Torri dryly, and Legolas could not help blushing.  Perhaps he ought to have been less demonstrative; the other two new arrivals seemed to be monitoring him with narrowed eyes, and he knew such displays were not common among dwarves. 

But what was done was done, after all, and he squeezed Gimli’s hand and fumbled for his composure.  “Well, you have arrived just in time—I will show you to where you may lay your things aside, and then I would invite you all to partake in Ithilien’s hospitality.”

* * *

The feast clearing looked spectacular.

Legolas tried to push down on his smile as he surveyed it, but found he could not; his mouth curved stubbornly upward, his lips unable even to cover his teeth.  He had been involved in the spreading of cushions and blankets and dishes, had even helped here and there in the preparation of the food (Gimli had laughed when he told him) but he had not been involved in the decoration, and his people had created a splendor beyond his expectations and hopes.

Instead of tables, long strips of cloth had been laid out with dishes, so that none might be higher or lower than any other; piles of cushions indicated where the mortal members of their party would dine, so that they might be comfortable.  Legolas and Gimli, Aragorn, and Arwen, and Eowyn and Faramir would all be seated near the center, with a few members of each guard close to the visiting leaders.

Low tables made of long boards braced on stones had been laid out with the food—platters and platters of it: freshly-roasted game dripping with fat and seasoned with herbs; stews of vegetables and meat; loaves and loaves of bread, with cheese made from the milk of the goats that roamed the pastures of the men and were occasionally let loose in clearings near where the elves made their home; plates of fruit and bowls of cream; pitchers of wine, water, and mead.

Small fires, contained within circles of stones, burned here and there between the seating areas, and blankets had been left with the cushions near the mortals’ tables, though the night would likely remain fairly warm.  Candles made pathways between the “tables,” tiny flames that gave a warm glow to the whole glade and dazzled Legolas’s eyes, and all had been draped and strewn with ivy and flowers and sweet-smelling herbs.

Beside him, Gimli made a quiet impressed noise, and when Legolas turned to him, Gimli tugged him down to plant a kiss at the corner of his wide smile.  “It is beautiful,” the dwarf whispered, and Legolas nearly _giggled_ in response, giddy with delight.

Most of the others were already seated or still filing in, and Legolas practically floated over to where he was to sit, clutching Gimli’s arm as though to hold himself to the ground.  Aragorn and Arwen were waiting for them, and both rushed forward to greet Gimli – Legolas had already received them formally the day before.  Faramir, Eowyn, and some of their people had come only for the evening, and would likely return to their own homes after.  Legolas greeted them now, though still felt strangely held back.  It was odd – though he lived so close to Faramir, and had come to know him as a friend, they both became shy of one another at public events, often speaking mostly to Aragorn.  Still, Legolas liked him well, and was glad to see that he too had brought people, though the mannish settlement had held their own anniversary celebration already two years before.

By the time all greetings had been exchanged, the remainder of the attendees had arrived and settled themselves at their places.  Aragorn smiled at Gimli, releasing his arm, and then turned to survey the crowd.  As the king, it was his place to speak; the elves respected that even if many of them did not view him as their leader (the elves of Ithilien had been allowed to remain mostly independent, living off their own land and allowing Legolas to handle the trade with Gondor, which he negotiated well enough with Aragorn’s assistance).

“Greetings, friends—people of Gondor and Ithilien, and of Aglarond,” he said, with a smile in Gimli’s direction.  “I know you are all eager to feast more than your eyes on the spread set before us, so I will say little more than that I am honored to greet you all, and incredibly proud to see what Ithilien has become.  I have always known never to underestimate the abilities of elves with a passion, but never have I seen the rewards so bountiful as I see here.  I honor all your hard work and your commitment to this land—and before we are all released to eat, I would allow a few words to the one who has made this all possible.”  And with that he bowed, and gestured to Legolas.

It was only his preparation for this moment that prevented Legolas from crumpling in embarrassed pleasure.  He stepped forward, feeling as though the flames from the fire had crawled beneath his skin, and inclined his head to Aragorn.  “Thank you,” he said, before clearing his throat and repeating the words more loudly.  “As you all know, I am not one to use many words when few will do,” there were a few chuckles at those words, and he started in surprise.  “So I will merely say that this night comes least of all because of me, and would never have come at all were I alone.  The greatest thanks must be directed at those who have accompanied me, humored me, and worked by my side to help purge this land of the evils of Mordor—and to prepare and lay out this delicious feast.  I am thankful to the elves, men, and dwarves who have given us time, hard work, and friendship—and I am glad of the alliances we have made and those that we will continue to build.”  He smiled out at them, the practiced words flowing more smoothly than he had ever expected.  “So I only have one word left for you all: enjoy.”  And he repeated it in Westron, Sindarin, and—before he could talk himself out of it—Khuzdul as well.

When he sat back down, there was a pause for a moment, and then elves, dwarves, and men all began flocking to the food tables.

Beside him, Gimli tapped his arm.  “Well done,” he whispered, and Legolas could not stop beaming, even as he leaned forward to kiss him.

* * *

The feast lasted long into the night, and the fires had all been restoked and burned down again by the time enough of the others had dispersed that Legolas and Gimli could return to their home.  Gimli had gone quiet an hour or so before they left, likely sleepy after his long days of traveling and then the feast, so Legolas kept an arm around him and made their farewells for the both of them, to the very few who remained.

“That was more successful than I had ever expected,” murmured Legolas happily as he lit the lamp beside the bed, as Gimli changed into his nightshirt with slow, sluggish movements.  “What do you think your people thought?”

Gimli did not respond, and Legolas frowned.  “Gimli?”

“Hmm?” Gimli’s brows had drawn together, but he smoothed out his face with what seemed a great effort.  “Oh.  No better impression could have been made, I think.”

But he did not seem as though he were paying attention, and Legolas’s frown deepened.  “My love.  Is anything wrong?”

“Mm, nothing.”  The words came with effort, though, and Gimli made his way to the bed without washing his face or cleaning his teeth, lying down on his side facing away from Legolas.  “No, I am merely tired; do not worry.”

“Very well,” Legolas said, but he worried nonetheless.  He performed his own ablutions as quickly as possible, the giddy lightness of the evening sinking into the pit of his stomach—had something gone wrong that he had not noticed?—and slowing his movements.  When finally he had washed and changed into his own nightshirt—he had hoped not to need it tonight, but it did not seem that would be the case— he slid into bed beside Gimli, wondering if he ought to reach out.

Gimli had been quiet throughout the process, but Legolas could tell he was not asleep: his back was held tense, stiff when Legolas dared to lay a hand on it, and his limbs drawn in around his chest.  It was Legolas’s own typical defensive posture, when putting up shields against his own mind, but Gimli wore it much less often.

Legolas ventured a gentle circle with the hand on Gimli’s back, and Gimli relaxed for an instant and then tensed up again, curling tighter.

“Gimli?” he asked.  “Are you…” No, Gimli was not one to keep his troubles inside, especially not after the promise they had made long ago to be open with one another.  A different concern descended on Legolas instead, and he finished, tentative, “…feeling poorly?”

“Not terribly.”  The words were more of a grunt, and they did not comfort Legolas one whit.  “I think I must have merely— _oh—_ eaten something that disagreed with me.”  He did not turn, though, and Legolas sat up to lean over him and peer into his face—it was pale and drawn, and Legolas could see the sheen of sweat over his forehead.  He gave a grimace that was clearly an attempt at a reassuring smile.  “Worry not; it will surely pass soon.”

Legolas frowned and laid a hand on Gimli’s forehead.  “Are you certain?”  He had no experience with such things himself; there was precious little that an elf could not stomach, and he had seen Gimli ill from food only once, when some of his friends in Rohan had accidentally served spoiled meat.  This felt different somehow, though Legolas could not pinpoint exactly why.

Gimli shrugged and closed his eyes, and Legolas stroked his hair in concern.  It was true that this seemed like no natural illness, for Gimli had been fine before the feasting, but to see him in such pain made something inside of Legolas ache as well, as though hurts to Gimli’s body made themselves known on his own spirit.

“Shall I make mint tea?” he suggested.  “That might settle your stomach.”

“If you— _oh_.”  Gimli lurched upright then, one hand flying to his mouth, and Legolas scrambled out of the bed beside him, groping frantically beneath the bed for the (thankfully yet unused) chamber pot.  His hand closed over the rim and he slid it out just in time for Gimli to hunch over it and be violently sick.

Legolas braided his hair back as quickly as he could, though there was nothing to be done for his beard, and then settled for rubbing Gimli’s back and humming softly—partly in the hope of comforting his husband, and partly to muffle the sound of his retching, which made Legolas feel dizzy and faint.

After some time, Gimli coughed and groaned, swaying alarmingly to the side.  Legolas caught his shoulders and steadied him, though he felt rather unbalanced himself.  “Beloved,” he said in alarm.  “Tell me what I may do for you.”

“I do not think—” Gimli broke off and coughed again, a horrible, sickly sound that made Legolas swallow hard in sympathetic nausea.  “I do not think anything can be done but to wait for it to pass.”

Legolas traced the line of the hastily-woven braid.  “Shall I make that tea then?  And perhaps a skin of warm water for the cramps?”

Gimli gave a tiny, pained smile.  “Everyone ought to have an elf for a husband,” he murmured.  “Yes; that sounds very nice.”

Legolas sprang up and busied himself stoking the stove in the corner, carefully reinforced so that no fire might break free of his control and burn down the forest; fetching the dried leaves from a small cabinet; ducking out the back to their small spring for a skin of water.

When he returned, Gimli was retching again, and Legolas dropped the waterskin to rush to Gimli’s side, though he could do nothing to comfort him.  It was what he loathed most about mortal frailties: his own powerlessness, the inability to do aught but hum soothing melodies and wait for it to pass.  Gimli’s body shuddered, quaking in the grip of illness, and as ever that loss of stability made Legolas feel off-balance and ungrounded, as though the slightest nudge might take him off his feet.

“Will you have a drink?” he asked when this bout had passed, rising to retrieve the dropped waterskin.  He poured the majority of its contents into a pot on the stove to boil, and the rest into a cup.

Gimli had slumped to the side, resting his cheek against the smooth wood of the wall above the bed; he groaned and shook his head.

“Please?” Legolas coaxed.  “Please; you are losing water, my love.”  He pressed the cup into Gimli’s hand.  “For me.”

Gimli groaned again, but took the cup and sipped reluctantly at its contents.  Legolas nodded encouragement, but the relief lasted only the space of a breath—within moments Gimli was doubled over the chamber pot again, unable to keep even the water down.

“Gimli,” Legolas said, water boiled but forgotten, his worry only building, “this is not what it was like last time.”  Last time had begun similarly, but had not seemed so agonizing or drawn-out; Gimli had asked for water himself nearly as soon as his stomach was empty, and had said it was merely a relief to be rid of the spoiled food.  “Are you certain it is the same thing?”

“What else might it be?”  Gimli hugged his stomach and rocked back and forth as though it pained him; remembering, Legolas leaped up once more to fill the waterskin with warm water.  “I give you my word that I did not feel poorly at all before dinner.”

“Here.”  Legolas pressed the skin of warm water against Gimli’s belly; Gimli let out a sigh of relief that quickly broke into a round of dry heaving.  When it was done, to Legolas’s horror, he spat out something that looked like blood.

“Gimli—” The name came out as a sob, but Gimli did not even seem to notice; his eyes had slid out of focus, and now every breath held the hint of a moan.  He raised one hand from his belly to press against his forehead, as though his head too pained him.  “Gimli, this seems worse than merely food that has gone off.”

“Yes,” said Gimli, his voice as unfocused as his gaze, with more than a trace of a whimper.  He squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing his hand up and down over his forehead as though through some compulsion.

This was enough.  This was not normal, and Legolas could not bear to watch helplessly any longer.  “I am getting Aragorn,” he said, standing—gladder even than before that their friend was here.  Aragorn would know what was happening, and he would know how to heal it.

“No,” Gimli moaned, but he hardly seemed conscious of what Legolas had said—only that he had made to go.  “No, stay!  Do not leave me alone!”  The hand left his head to grasp weakly in the air, reaching for Legolas.  “Do not—” He did not finish his sentence.  Instead he curled forward around his stomach and began to weep.

That was enough to set free the stinging flow of tears that had dammed up in Legolas’s eyes; his vision was so blurred that he could hardly see to kiss the top of Gimli’s head.  “I am sorry,” he whispered.  “I will be back in moments.  You will hardly miss me.”

And he fled, weeping the harder at the despairing cry Gimli let out as he turned his back.

Aragorn and Arwen were in a _talan_ not far from his own home on the ground; as ever when they visited, two guards camped at the foot of the tree.  They tried to stop Legolas as he approached, but he hardly heard their voices, evading their attempts to hold him back with an ease born of desperation and scaling the tree as quickly as he had ever climbed to alight on their platform.

They must have woken to the sounds of the guards’ voices, for they were both sitting up in bed, hair rumpled with sleep.  Aragorn’s hand was on the hilt of Anduril, and Arwen held the dagger Legolas knew she kept at the side of the mattress.  But the wariness in both their faces changed to alarm before he could even say a word.

“Legolas?” asked Aragorn, half-rising.  “Legolas, what is wrong?”

Dimly he recognized that he must look a sight: disheveled and teary-eyed, and he had taken no time to put on shoes before leaving his home.  But now as he attempted to order his thoughts, he found that no words would replace the ragged gasping that he had thought came only from exertion.

No! Not now, not when he had urgent information to convey!  He gestured desperately back toward his home with one hand and pressed the other to his chest, trying to physically push down the tears and panic enough to speak.

Arwen rose and put a hand on his shoulder.  “Is it Gimli?” she asked.

He nodded frantically and gave an ugly heaving gasp.

Aragorn rose as well.  “Is he hurt?”

Legolas nodded, then shook his head.  Was Gimli hurt?  This illness could not be normal, and it had come on so suddenly—he knew not what it was, only that it must be remedied.

“Ill?”

He managed another nod, and then a croaking, “Please.”

“We are coming.”  Arwen reached to a hook for her dressing gown.  “Aragorn, get your healing things and follow.  Legolas, he will be right behind us, but take me with you now.”

Dimly, Legolas was able to appreciate the thought behind her directions.  Aragorn was nearly as nimble as any elf, but he was still not as skilled at ascending and descending, and Arwen moved nearly as quickly as Legolas in the forest, so he need not grow impatient with her lagging.  And she did not have the same gift that Aragorn did, but she was a child of Elrond and a skilled healer herself.  Legolas only prayed that Gimli had not grown worse in the short time he had been away.

It was too much to hope.

Gimli was no longer sitting, as he had been when Legolas had left: he lay on his side once more, curled around his stomach—but even as Legolas and Arwen reached the doorway he let out a horrible grunting moan and his whole body convulsed in a shuddering spasm; his limbs jerked, and one of his flailing legs caught the basin on a jolt and threatened to knock it over.  Legolas realized this must have happened already, for it had shifted from where he had set it, and some of its contents had sloshed over the side.  He felt Arwen recoil where she stood—and he too noticed the scent of sickness that assailed them at the entrance of the door, nearly knocking her back a step: overpowering, bitter and curdled.

He could not care.

Later, he would not remember how he had crossed the room, only that he was on the bed by Gimli’s side, sobbing harder than ever and seizing his husband’s shoulders.  “Gimli?” he said, vaguely aware that his own voice was growing shrill with fear and pain.  “Gimli, my dear, Gimli, I am back.”  Gimli only gave a low moan.  “Please look at me?” begged Legolas.  “Please?”

Gimli whimpered again, but he looked up.  His eyes would not focus on Legolas’s face; they were wild and glazed with tears.  “Legolas?” he said, his voice tiny and plaintive.  “Legolas, is that you?”

“It is.”  Legolas stroked Gimli’s cheek, steadying his voice with a massive effort.  “Can you understand me?”

“Legolas, it is squeezing me.”  Gimli clutched at his head, his voice rising in panic.  “Make it stop squeezing!”

“Where is it squeezing?”  Gimli’s cheeks were already damp with both of their tears.  “Where does it hurt?”

“Here.”  Gimli scraped at his head once more with his fingers, as though to pull his hair away.  “And here.”  Automatically Legolas looked for another gesture, but saw none—did Gimli know that his hand was not moving?  “And here, and here, and—” He writhed, then wailed as another convulsion seized him.

Legolas’s ears rang; his chest contracted around his breath until his head grew light and all sight and sound receded.  Very dimly, he heard Arwen padding across the floor to stand beside him, and the corner of his eye caught the motion as she nudged the basin out of the way of Gimli’s flailing limbs, without any sign of flinching at its contents.  Very gently, without saying a word, she laid a hand on his shoulder.

Gimli moaned when the spasm left him, his body hitching in another series of dry heaves.  Nothing was left in his stomach to come up, but a trickle of blood ran out the corner of his mouth, and Legolas clamped his lips against an agonized cry.

The light woven door flew open so hard it rebounded against the outside wall, and Aragorn skidded to a stop obviously from a dead run.  He, like Arwen, still wore his dressing gown, and he carried his healing bag over one shoulder—and when he saw Gimli, he, too, stood frozen for a moment.

“Oh,” he said, and then he was beside the bed, gently nudging Arwen aside so that he could examine Gimli.  “Oh.”

His voice was heavy, and Legolas’s agitation spiked.  “What does that mean?” he shrilled.  “What ails him, Aragorn?”

“I know not exactly,” said Aragorn.  “But this is no natural illness.  Did he show any signs of this before?”

“No,” gulped Legolas.  “No, and he swore he felt nothing before the meal.  He thought – he thought at first that it was something he had eaten, but—”

He fell silent, a terrible suspicion descending on him—one he perhaps should have considered before, but could hardly bring himself to think.  Aragorn looked up and nodded.

“Yes,” he said, “that is what I think as well.  It looks as though he has been poisoned.”


	2. Chapter 2

Legolas’s whole body went ice cold; all the blood drained from his head to be replaced with a rush of whirling questions— _what_ , and _why_ , and most importantly _who_ – and then even those questions died away in an overwhelming surge of fear.

Poisoned!  It was something that happened only rarely among elves, for the poison of most plants did not affect them, and only animals with truly evil venom could cause them harm.  His only experience was with the venom of the spiders that had—and in some places still—roamed his home forest.  And that venom, if not treated in time, was too often fatal.

He did not realize he was swaying until he felt Arwen’s hands on his shoulders holding him steady.  Then he started back to himself and reached out, as though grasping for hope, to seize Aragorn’s arm.

“Can you heal him?”  If Aragorn could not... Horrifying memory assailed him suddenly, of Siril from _yeni_ before.  This was why she had sailed: damage from spiders’ venom too agonizing to remain on Middle-earth, and he remembered the small, pained smile she had given as she bade him farewell, the smooth shields hiding razors of pain in Laerwen’s eyes as she kissed her wife for the last time until she sailed herself, or died—

He would not be his sister.  He could not.  He could not stay here in Gimli’s absence; all his ties to Middle-earth would be suddenly and mercilessly shredded; Gimli would be gone and the world would be a dull wasteland without his easy smile, his solid surety—

“I believe so,” said Aragorn, his voice lined with iron bars of forced calm.  “I know not what the poison was, but at least his body is reacting to remove it, and I know some substances that can work as antidotes for most poisons.  Arwen, go fill a waterskin from the spring—he has lost too much water and he will surely lose more.  Legolas, charcoal from the stove, and stoke it up again.”

Gimli cried out when Legolas moved away, a sound of anguish that rent Legolas open and tore straight at his soul—but he forced himself to move to the stove, even as Gimli twisted, reaching and calling for him.  The charcoal in the stove was still too hot to hold, but he yanked out what he could anyway, ignoring the burned tips of his fingers and adding more kindling to coax the embers into flames.

Meanwhile Aragorn had removed a mortar and pestle from his bag, as well as an assortment of scattered herbs.  “Give that to me,” he said, taking the rapidly-cooling charcoal from Legolas and beginning to grind it into powder.  He ignored Gimli’s moans and thrashing, and did not even look up when Arwen entered with the waterskin, though his next words were directed at her.  “Good.  Pour half that water into the kettle to boil; keep the other half.”

“I tried to make him drink,” stammered Legolas.  His teeth were chattering now, despite the heat of the fire; he found himself shivering madly for no reason he could identify.  “He could not—he would not—”

“Keep it down.”  Aragorn’s voice was short, terse; he did not look up from his work.  “No, I imagine not—and he may have trouble for some time yet.  We have a difficult night ahead of us, I fear.”

“Someone ought to inform Gimli’s companions of what has happened,” said Arwen.  “Do you need my help, or shall I go now?”

“They will be in the way.”  Aragorn poured the cold water into the mortar with the charcoal and stirred it into an ashy grey liquid, flecks of charcoal floating in it undissolved.  “I will need space.”

“Aragorn.”  Arwen’s voice turned cool.  “If they learn nothing of this as it unfolds, and wake only to find their lord’s life in danger and two elves and a man alone with him—”

“Send for them, then!” snapped Aragorn.  “But I will suffer no distraction until my work is done.  Legolas may help me, if he can pull himself together long enough to manage it.”

Legolas swallowed hard and swiped a hand over the tears on his cheeks.  “I can,” he said.  He could set aside anything for Gimli’s life, and surely he had come through more frightening situations before, though he could not remember them, but—

No.  No, he had never undergone anything so frightening as this—but it mattered not, for Gimli needed him.  “What do you need of me?”

Arwen disappeared without a word, off to alert Gimli’s guards; Aragorn looked up at last.  “Take that outside and empty it,” a nod to the chamber pot.  “It is likely we will need it again.  Then—"

But Legolas was already halfway out the house with the basin.  He hesitated only a moment, trying to decide where to dispose of the contents—especially if there was yet poison within, he did not wish to put them anywhere near the water.  At last, he set the pot against the edge of the house to be dealt with later and fetched the spare.

“Wash your hands,” said Aragorn when Legolas had brought the new pot in, “and set that tea to brewing.  We will want it later.”  He had laid out three cups: one filled with plain water, one with the charcoal water, and a third yet empty, presumably for the tea.

Legolas scrubbed up as quickly as he could, trying not to turn and look.  Still he could hear every sound Gimli made: every low groan and panicked breath—each of which sounded more labored than the last.  And he knew that Aragorn was moving as quickly as he could, that he must be methodical, but the wild fear threatened to rise up in his throat once more and strangle him; the urge to shake Aragorn by the shoulders and beg him to hurry up—and the only thing that prevented him from doing so was the knowledge that that would only slow the proceedings further.

Aragorn had sat Gimli up in the bed once more, but Legolas could see that he would not stay upright once Aragorn let him go.  He did not wait to be asked—he flew to the bed, tucking himself in half-under Gimli’s weight and putting one hand to his chest and one at the back of his neck to keep him from lolling.

“Good.”  Aragorn picked up the first cup—the charcoal water.  “Now hold his head while he drinks this.”

Had anyone else told him to do such a thing, Legolas might have been tempted to disbelieving, panicked violence.  But this was Aragorn, and Legolas trusted him with Gimli’s life.  Swallowing hard, he adjusted his grip so that he was holding both sides of Gimli’s head.  Gimli’s struggles had grown weaker and weaker, but when Legolas tried to pry his mouth open, he found that Gimli’s jaw had gone tense as though someone had melted his teeth together.

“It is the seizures—they have stiffened his jaw.”  Aragorn moved to try himself, but found the same resistance and grunted, his fingers clearly trying to do gentle work with as much strength as he could muster.

Legolas could hardly force voice from his throat for it, and indeed his spirit could hardly muster a melody, but with a great effort of will, he began to hum.  A song as soothing as he possibly could, combined with gentle circular massage of his fingers at the hinges of Gimli’s jaw—and slowly, maddeningly slowly, he felt Gimli relaxing under his fingers, until at last he could prise Gimli’s jaws apart.

“Good,” said Aragorn.  “Now.”

He stirred the charcoal water one last time, lifted the cup to Gimli’s lips, and tipped the contents into his mouth.

He poured slowly, so that Gimli would not choke, and Legolas rubbed gently at his throat to make him swallow even if he did not mean to.  Gimli made strangled moaning noises in between swallows, but they managed to coax the charcoal water down his throat.  Aragorn rose to fetch more, but as he had been given no instruction, Legolas merely held Gimli still and continued to hum.  He had no healing magic for anything other than plants, but Gimli had told him often enough that it felt as if he did, and he would give Gimli any comfort he could, however paltry.

It did not take long; within moments Gimli was shuddering in his grip, and Legolas held his head over the basin as he gagged and sputtered.  Legolas knew not if he was growing immune to it or if part of him had merely withdrawn to protect itself, but he no longer felt the pained heaving as though it wracked his own body.

“You said this was to happen?” he could not stop from saying aloud, anyway.

“It is a normal reaction,” Aragorn reassured him.  “The charcoal binds to the poison in his body and renders it useless until it is expelled.  Since whatever he was given affected him so violently, it is not surprising that it is being expelled this way – and if we have begun in time, it should leave his body before it enters his blood.”

 _And if we have not?_ Legolas did not ask.  He would not force Aragorn to speak an answer he already knew.

Gimli coughed weakly, his strength nearly used up in efforts that Legolas could not allow himself to believe were futile.  “And now?” he said to Aragorn.

“One more dose,” Aragorn said.  “In case the first was not sufficient.”  He came back to the bed with another cup of the ashy water.  “Hold him again.”

It was an unnecessary order, but Legolas kept his mouth shut and steadied Gimli’s head.  Gimli tried to jerk away when Aragorn brought the cup to his lips once more, insensible but conscious enough to recognize the unpleasantness of the antidote.  Legolas murmured to him, softening his voice with a calm he did not feel, stroking gentle circles on Gimli’s cheeks as Aragorn tipped the cup of charcoal water down his throat in slow swallows.  Legolas’s own throat tightened with every unhappy gurgling noise that Gimli made until his eyes were flooding once more.

They were on the last swallow when the door flew open once more.

“ _What have you done_?”

The voice was so loud and so sudden that Aragorn swore horribly and spilled the last of the charcoal on Gimli’s beard; Legolas started, almost losing his grip, and Gimli’s head rolled forward into the mass of hair before Legolas could catch him again.

Aragorn whirled, empty cup still in his hand, to face the small group of dwarves who had forced their way into Legolas’s home and now stared in horror at the state of their lord—and to glare at Arwen standing behind them.  “So the wills of a group of dwarves proved more than a match for the Queen of Gondor, even when armed with a request not to allow disturbance?”

The apologetic look on Arwen’s face froze over.  “You may speak to them, then, and I will take your place and help Legolas,” she said coolly.

Aragorn started, and looked as though he would have apologized—but the one Gimli had introduced as Torri interrupted him.  “You dare ask not to be disturbed by _us_ , the rightful subjects of our lord, when you— _what have you done to him_?”

Legolas scanned the group very quickly, and felt his shoulders sag in dismay when he saw neither Lis nor Althi present.  Frai, Torri, and Svi had come in—only one of whom Legolas had met before this evening, and the latter two even Gimli did not know as well.  Indeed, these were the dwarves whom Gimli would likely least wish to see him in such a state.

“We have _done_ our best to undo the damage caused by another,” said Aragorn.  “Since you have come here, surely my wife has enlightened you to the generalities of the situation, though we know nothing specific as yet.”

“We have heard,” said Frai.  “We have heard that treachery is afoot in Ithilien, that evidently claims of friendship mean no such thing, that—”

Legolas would have surged up from his seat, if not for Gimli.  The dwarf seemed at last to have noticed, through whatever haze clouded his mind, that his people were here; he jerked feebly in Legolas’s grip, opened his mouth as though to speak—and then doubled over, helpless in the grip of another wave of nausea.

Legolas could feel the stares, the tension—he knew without looking that the dwarves in the room were torn between the warring desires to look away from the distressing sight and to glare at him; he could feel the heat of their suspicion and upset on the side of his cheek and neck—but he did not, could not, look at them now.  He guided Gimli’s head back over the chamber pot, returned to the task of rubbing his back and humming to him, though his voice shook and threatened to fail.  Even the dwarves fell silent, at least for a few moments.

“We have no time for accusations at the moment,” Aragorn said finally, his voice tired.  “We will talk of what has happened and what it means tomorrow.  As it is, you will either make yourselves useful, or you will stand there in quiet.  If you cannot do either of those things, I will ask you to leave.”

Again Legolas knew the dwarves would be seething, boiling with rage at being told what to do—but perhaps they trusted Aragorn at least, or perhaps they understood the seriousness of the moment, and they remained quiet.  Legolas wished they would go, for he knew Gimli would not wish to have his subjects witnessing such a moment of frailty—

As long as it mattered.  As long as Gimli grew well enough again to care.

“What do we do now, Aragorn?” he asked, his voice trembling.  “More charcoal?”

Aragorn shook his head.  “If we have administered it in time, what we have given should be enough.  He has expelled what he can; now we must replace the water he has lost.”  He poured the last of the water into a cup and held out the empty skin without looking.  “If one of you would refill this.”

Frai took the waterskin and, more subdued than before, the dwarves filed out—perhaps respecting Aragorn's request for space, perhaps unwilling to take orders from a man, or perhaps it simply pained them too much to see Gimli as he was.  Whatever the reason, Legolas was glad of their absence.

And so the night stretched on: gently pouring water and tea down Gimli’s throat, waiting and praying for it to stay down, holding his head when it did not.  Gimli seemed to grow weaker and more frail each time, vomiting blood more often than not, his low moans of pain the only sign that he was yet conscious.  Legolas bit his tongue more than once when he would have asked Aragorn whether Gimli would recover, but he could not always prevent the anxious words from leaving his mouth, and Aragorn’s voice was tenser each time he answered.

The dwarves had left, but Legolas could hear them keeping a determined vigil nearby, unusually silent—doubtless they were speaking to one another in _iglishmek_ , that none of the elves might understand.  From time to time, one would poke a head into the door.

Some elves, too, were roused by the commotion, but none of them did any more than glance into the house—perhaps out of respect for Legolas’s distress, or out of a repulsion from mortal illness.  He hardly noticed them, beyond the barest registration of their presence; his world had narrowed down to Gimli’s pain and his own desperate fear and dwindling hope.  The giddiness of the evening before had flown so far away Legolas could hardly remember it had once existed.

And yet somehow, despite his intense focus on Gimli, he did not notice at first when things changed for the better.

It was near dawn, though the long, horrible night seemed to have stretched years instead of hours; again they had wearily lifted the water cup to Gimli’s lips and braced him, preparing for the inevitable convulsions when his body rejected it yet again… and Legolas held him ready for long moments before realizing that nothing was happening.

He looked up, directly into Aragorn’s eyes, and he wondered if the disbelieving, hopeful expression on Aragorn’s face was a mirror of his own.

Still he said nothing, and still nothing happened; he listened carefully but noticed no change in Gimli’s labored, moaning breaths—none of the stuttering that indicated another bout of sickness was on its way.

“Aragorn,” he said, and hardly recognized his own voice.  “Aragorn, do you think…”

“I do not know,” said Aragorn, hushed, equally hesitant.  “I hardly dare…”

Gimli’s breathing hitched just then, and Legolas’s heart dropped from his throat down into the pit of his stomach, threatening to pin him to the bed.  Tears stung his eyes, and it was all he could do to hold Gimli as the dwarf’s body shook with a bout of painful coughing.  The disappointment felt heavier after that brief moment of hope—but to Legolas’s surprise, when it ended, the water had not yet made a reappearance.

Hope and despair crashed together in frothy waves inside him, and he swallowed hard, forcing his hands to loosen where they threatened to crush Gimli’s shoulder and cheek.

Gimli moaned then – not the steady whimper that had lurked in all his breathing this night, but a deliberate sound he had not made in some hours—and one of his hands twitched.  Legolas nearly choked on his own gasp.  “Gimli?” he whispered.  “Gimli, can you hear me?”

The sound was breathy, whining—not at all Gimli’s usual voice, but there nonetheless.  “Le…”

“Yes,” Legolas whispered, stroking a trembling finger over Gimli’s cheekbone.  “Yes, I am here.”

“Thirsty,” Gimli whispered.

Legolas strangled his intake of breath before it could become a sob, and looked up at Aragorn—who nodded.

“We have some water for you,” he said, his own voice hardly any stronger than Gimli’s.  “But you must drink slowly, so you will not be sick again.”  Gimli’s hand twitched again, as though to reach for the cup.  “No, let me.”

Legolas held the cup to Gimli’s lips and let him take another small sip, but pulled the cup away as Gimli would have reached for more.  “Not yet, my love,” said Legolas at Gimli’s tiny noise of protest.  “Wait and see how it settles.”

And it did!  They waited a minute, then another, Legolas matching his breathing to Gimli’s so that it would not speed out of control in wild frantic hope, and still Gimli murmured complaint of his thirst and reached for the cup.  Another sip stayed down, and another, until the whole cup was gone and Legolas felt battered inside and out, as though his body and spirit alike were being thrashed frantically with conflicting emotion, until Aragorn no longer radiated grim concern but rather cautious optimism.  And when the cup was empty, Gimli lolled back against Legolas’s shoulder, but it seemed his weakness stemmed from exhaustion as much as sickness.

“Tired,” he breathed, and once more Legolas looked a question at Aragorn.

“Sleep, then,” said Aragorn.  “Sleep, and recover your strength.”  And as Legolas laid Gimli gently down onto the pillows, watched his eyes slide closed and his hands relax, Aragorn looked over and spoke the next words to him.  “I believe the worst is over.”

Legolas dissolved.

He was not conscious of exactly how it had happened, but it seemed as though all the flimsy supports he had constructed for his own emotions collapsed at once, washed away in a flood of feeling.  His limbs went weak, his heart broke into pieces and yet was made whole again, and the next thing he knew he was lying with his head on Gimli’s chest, sobbing so hard he thought his body might shudder apart.

“Legolas.”  He heard Aragorn’s voice beside him, but lacked any strength to respond to it; a hand took hold of his shoulder and he hardly felt the touch.  “Arwen, take him outside.”

“No.”  His hands curled to fists in Gimli’s nightshirt; he hardly knew what he did, but only that he was to be taken away from his love, only that he was meant to leave Gimli behind and he could not, he could _not—_ "No, no, what if I leave, and he—and he—”

“Legolas.”  A new pair of hands, prying his own out of Gimli’s clothing and pulling him upright; he fought, possessed by some desperation, but Arwen wrapped her arms around him from behind and tugged him back.  “Legolas, Aragorn will watch over him, but he will not grow any worse.  Come with me now.”

He was crying too hard to fight her; she drew him away from the bed and across the room; he stumbled on legs numb from long sitting; his eyes screwed shut against the world.  Only the cool, damp dawn air on his arms let him know when they had left the hut.  Arwen sank to her knees and held him against her chest, and he sobbed into her shoulder: ugly, open-mouthed wailing, and even he knew not whether it came from relief or from leftover unspent grief.

She rocked him back and forth, hushing him with words that might have been in Sindarin or Westron, but he was too far gone to distinguish them.

“Your majesty?” The voice came from not far away, but the thought of collecting himself to answer was heavy as an anvil, and Legolas could bear no more weight.  “Is he—?”

“He is well,” answered Arwen in hushed tones.  “Aragorn watches over Gimli, but we believe he will recover.  Legolas is merely overwrought.”

Legolas pressed his face harder into her shoulder so no one would see it, and shuddered with another sob.  He ought to be ashamed, falling apart so in front of his subjects and his visitors alike, but that shame was buried deep, a small hard ball lodged at the base of his gut, almost unnoticeable amidst the roaring waves of fear and grief and relief.  Gimli would recover.  Gimli would not die.

Gimli could have died.

He ran out of tears before the emotion had run its course, and after a final round of dry, stuttering sobs he lifted his head from Arwen’s shoulder, his eyes dry and tender, his cheeks wet and burning with shame.

He did not want to, but he must: wiping a hand across his face, he forced himself to look around.

To his relief, he found that he was mostly alone: Arwen, of course, sat with him, and he realized now that Eleniel had come and settled herself behind him—not touching him, but clearly giving him her presence, should he need it.  He offered her a quivering half-smile now.

Her lips twisted in concern, and she tilted her head; he lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug.  He knew not whether he was well or not, for this night—he was coming slowly to realize, from the sinking lump of cold dread in his stomach—was only the beginning.

No one else was in sight, but Legolas could hear faint rustlings in the forest around: the sound of elves who did not wish to be seen but did not mind their presence known.  He was grateful for the illusion of privacy, even as he also gave a quiet thanks for their concern—

That was—and here the lump tightened and tangled, like a knot pulling threads of his insides into its grip—so long as they were truly concerned for _him_.  As long as their concern did not come from a darker source.

And even as that horrible thought crossed his mind, a single dwarf emerged from his small house, evidently just returned from checking on Gimli.  Lis.

“Lord Legolas,” she said, and he could hear a bleak note of dread in her voice that tugged the knot tighter.  “I have been assured that my lord will recover, and I am glad of it.  But now that we know this, my companions will wait no longer.  They desire to speak with you.”  Her glance darted between Legolas, Arwen, and Eleniel.  “Now.”


	3. Chapter 3

Legolas hated to do this.

He ought to have grown accustomed, by now, to uncomfortable confrontations in such a state of ragged nerves—but the truth was that he had not had to do so in some time.  He felt often as though he were leader of Ithilien in name only—his settlement was small still, and his people knew one another well enough that he needed to do little practical governing.  And his connection with Gondor meant that he only had to treat with Aragorn and Faramir in matters of trade and diplomacy.

As to the dwarves—well, there, Gimli had always interceded on his behalf.

A hot iron rod pressed through his chest into his throat, and he swallowed, squaring his shoulders in feigned confidence and trying to appear more solid than he felt.  It shamed him, how unsteady he felt without Gimli by his side.  Almost without his notice, his hands caught one another before him, and he clung on for dear life.

He wished Alma were here.

The group had gathered in a small tight cluster not far from his lodgings, holding the rigid defensive posture of dwarves bracing for a fight.  Althi hung on the edges, looking uncomfortable—but they relaxed when Lis drew near, and Legolas realized that they had been worried for her.

His heart sank into his stomach.

“Good,” said Vinar when Legolas had arrived, belligerent, and clearly not in the mood for pleasantries or any kind of deference.  “You are here.”

“I am,” said Legolas.  He fought the desire to claw at his cheeks, which felt stiff with dried salt, or at his rumpled hair—he had never redone his braids after removing them to sleep—and clutched his hands tightly within one another to resist the urge.  “You will understand why I could not attend you before.”

Torri made a rough sound in his throat and spat to the side; Althi put a hand up to quell him, but said nothing.

The longer the silence stretched, the colder Legolas’s limbs became.  He knew what they wished of him; he knew what they would ask, and yet the prospect of doing it—of facing up to what they surely thought, of taking the blame they surely felt—drained all the blood from his head and the air from his lungs.

Northin spoke up at last.  “We are aware you were, ah, concerned for our lord’s recovery.  But now that we have been assured of that, we seek further satisfaction from you, Legolas of Ithilien.”

Legolas nodded, feeling as though he hardly had control of his motions.  “Of course,” he said woodenly.  Some small part of him, buried deep in his chest, was screaming at them: how dare they demand satisfaction from him, when his husband had lain so near death for so long; what could they possibly want from him—but he _knew_ what they wanted, and the crushing weight of shock and shame and numb disbelief muffled that voice until Legolas could hardly hear it.  “Of course; merely tell me what you seek of me.”

“We seek, as we think you know,” said Northin, “the name of the elf here who attempted to murder our lord.”

Legolas did not flinch anywhere but his hands; the grip of his fingers contracted, though, and his nails drew burning lines down his opposite palms.  He could not speak.

He sought Lis’s gaze, as though in the hope of some sort of comfort.  Surely she, too, despaired at this happening—surely she would understand his reluctance—and indeed, he thought he saw some reflection of his own torment in her eyes.  But was that pain at not wishing to believe one of Legolas’s folk had done such a thing?  Or was it regret at ever trusting them in the first place?  If even she would turn from him now…

And yet that was not fair.  To her, to all the dwarves, he had turned from them first, by allowing this to happen.

For who else could it have been but one of his people?  As unlikely as it possibly seemed, how could it have been any other?

“Of course,” he said again, no longer remembering what he was responding to, numb to the sound of his own voice.  His thoughts had already spiraled far beyond this individual meeting.  He could see them now, laid out before him: the days ahead, the painful suspicion, the uncertainty.  The doubt of all the dwarves who watched him, their surety that justice would never be done—and then the cloud of awfulness that he could not even contemplate: the possibility that it would need to be done.

He wished to cry that there must be a mistake, but he knew he could not.  Just as they could, he had sensed the wrongness, the malice in this since Gimli’s first stiffening of discomfort—and yet now he must face that somehow this malice had hidden in Ithilien, beneath his very eye—for how long, without his knowing?  He had trusted implicitly; he had believed that he need not enforce his will, that his people might all use their guiding hands to shape Ithilien into a land of beauty, free of Mordor’s poison – and now he found that some evil of an entirely different sort had lurked beneath his notice—

“So, _Lord_ Legolas,” said Vinar, the title laden heavily with bitter mocking, “now we shall see, I suppose, the test of your loyalties.  Ever have you and my lord assured us that your affections for one another were stronger than old hatreds, that your hand would keep Aglarond safe from any treachery.  Now that treachery has come, and we await your response.”

Legolas could not speak.  It was not the time for his wits to fail him, he knew, but he could find no words, and no voice to speak them with.  He only nodded, numb and cold.

“We would not let one villain destroy the friendship between our lands that we have all worked so hard to maintain,” said Svi, as though to reassure him.  “We do not hold you responsible for this, Lord Legolas—nor will we, so long as that villain is found and given to us, to punish as we see fit.”

Legolas could only nod again.  His breath was catching in his throat, higher and higher up, it seemed, but he pushed it down as hard as he could, to keep it smooth and quiet, at least before their hearing.

“You may speak for yourself,” snorted Vinar.  “For my part, I have no desire to be the victim of a second chance.  Our lord may have aspired to build friendship akin to that between the dwarves of Khazad-dum and the elves of Eregion, but we have seen what became of our kindred there, and I have no intention of being another such casualty.  Long have I known that your people are the true bane of Durin’s folk—and at least a Balrog does not wear a face of affection!  I will not stay to take the risk; I would leave this land before this treachery claims more than its share—and perhaps the next victim will not be so fortunate!”

And so speaking, he turned and stormed back towards his lodgings, with Frai following him—tossing wary looks back as she went, as though expecting Legolas to shoot them as soon as their backs were turned.

He wore no weapon; indeed, he was still in his night clothes—but even had he carried his bow he would not have been able to reach for it.  He felt frozen in place, unable to move but for his hands, winding together as though his fingers alone could rebind the ties that threatened to fray to pieces.  He could not even look up to meet the accusing eyes of the remaining dwarves who watched him, waiting for his response.

Finally Lis spoke up.  “Do not worry, my lord,” she said.  “We will make sure they do not leave before this business is concluded—or at least not before they have my lord’s permission to abandon him.”  She squared her shoulders.  “The oath they took as guards was to defend him from danger, not to flee at the sight of it, and I will make sure they do not forget it.”

“Thank you,” Legolas managed, but her words brought him no comfort, and it seemed she knew it.  With a last apologetic look, she turned to follow, gesturing that the others ought to accompany her and leave Legolas alone.

If he could have moved, Legolas would have grasped after them, reaching for something that slid through his fingers like water.  As he could not, he merely watched them instead.

“Legolas.”

Eleniel came towards him softly, with a step light enough not to startle him but loud enough to make her presence known.  She gave him ample time to move before finally coming to stand beside him and laying a gentle hand on his shoulder.  “Come with me.”

He might not have been able to move without her assistance; as it was, his feet shuffled in the scattered leaves as he walked, unable to lift them higher from the ground, and she guided him slowly back the way they had come and back to his home.

Standing before his door, for all the reluctance with which he had left it, he suddenly found that the thought of entering once more brought on a dread that nearly overmastered him.  It might have, except that the thought of never entering, of not knowing, was even more unbearable.

Still wordless, grateful for Eleniel’s presence behind him, he pushed open the door.

The smell hit him again when he entered; he had grown mostly numb to it over the long dreadful night, but now that he returned after some time away, it was as though his defenses had lowered, and he stumbled back a step.  The room smelled sour and rotten: bile and smoke and the sharp tang of fear-sweat.  Looking on it now in the light of day, Legolas could see the mess: items tossed hastily to the side, herbs scattered over the table, charcoal powder on the floor, stains where the chamber pot had been jolted.  The shambles of the room seemed an echo of his spirit, and he nearly forgot how all this had come about, for it felt merely as though a devastating storm had swept through his house, leaving it the same wreck as his soul.

And had it not, after all?

Gimli lay on his side in their bed, still sunk in heavy sleep.  It was wrong, though—he was breathing too shallowly, not the even, deep patterns of peaceful sleep, but nor was he restless or snoring, as he was when sleep had not fully claimed him yet.  His chest rose and fell, but scarcely, his breaths rasping quietly in his throat.

Aragorn and Arwen sat in chairs beside the bed; Arwen turned at Legolas’s approach, and at her motion, Aragorn gave a rasping half-snore and sat up quite suddenly.

“Legolas,” he said, his voice thick with sleep.  “Ah, good, you are back.”  He blinked, scrubbed a hand over his eyes, and yawned.  “Forgive me; I did not mean to doze.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Legolas managed, though his voice sounded dull to his own ears.  “You are tired; you have been awake all night.”  He looked down at Gimli, though he almost dared not reach out and touch him—after what had happened, he almost feared that his very touch would poison Gimli anew.  “Will he—he is sleeping strangely.  Are you quite certain—”

“Yes,” said Aragorn firmly, though Legolas detected a hint of unease.  “I cannot be positive without knowing what he was given,” Legolas felt a very slight flinch run through his body, but he did not think Aragorn caught it, “but he had an exhausting night, and that is enough to explain much.”

Exhausting indeed—even Legolas could not manage the energy to chide Aragorn for his euphemism, and the man continued.  “Still I have not managed to give him enough water, and when he wakes he will likely be thirsty and confused—and perhaps sick still; I cannot know.  Let him sleep until he wakes on his own, and then make him drink.”  He rubbed wearily at his eyes.  “Call me if you need assistance, but as I said, I believe the worst is over.”

Legolas nodded numbly as Aragorn and Arwen rose and left, each squeezing his shoulder gently on their way out, but he knew it was not.

It could not be over, for Gimli had survived, and soon the would-be murderer would know it—and until he knew who that was, the worst would never be over.  Fear would take root where before trust had grown; dwarves would never feel safe in Ithilien again, before or after the criminal was brought to justice.

That, Legolas thought, was the true victim of this crime—or rather, he was able to think that at last, now that he could believe Gimli would be well again (for Aragorn would not have left if he did not believe it).  Trust, and friendship—and Vinar’s bitter words rang in his mind: _long have I known that your people are the true bane of Durin’s folk_.  How might he ever convince anyone otherwise, after anything such as this had happened?  And what would Gimli think, when he woke?  Would he too have lost all his trust for Legolas’s people?

And why was his mind so insistent on defending them, even after all this?  How could he still not believe what had been done, or that one of his folk had done it?

He hunched forward, hugging himself.  He wished Gimli were awake, and immediately loathed himself for the selfishness of that thought—but it had been long years now since he had had to face something like this without Gimli, and he had not felt so alone in a long time.

“Legolas,” came Eleniel’s soft voice from behind him.

She had followed him inside, then, and now she came to sit beside him on the edge of the bed.  “No matter how it feels,” she said, “I promise you: you are not alone.”

She could not read his thoughts, perhaps, but she could read the speech of his body as well as she ever had.  He did not turn to look at her, but he sighed—the closest he could come, now, to expressing anything beyond the terrible twisting knot in his stomach.

“I confess, Eleniel,” he said heavily, “it feels as though I am.”

“I understand.”  She laid a hand on his arm, lightly enough that he could shake it off if he wished.  For a moment he considered it—the touch of another felt suddenly strange on his skin, as though he could not be reached in his isolation.  But in the end, he did nothing, for he felt that his comfort would not increase whether she touched him or not.

She seemed to sense even this; after a moment, she lifted her hand away.  “You must trust someone, Legolas.”  He heard the unspoken question in her words: _Have you ceased to trust me?_

It struck him deeper than he had expected, that slight hurt—struck him enough to make him turn, catch her eyes just as she had begun to turn away.

“I do,” he said, breathless.  “I do—I do trust you, Eleniel.  I do not think you would have done this.”  Of course, that thought seemed hardly to be trusted itself, not when Legolas’s own intuition had failed him so badly.  He had counted on every single one of his people here; had lived closely with them and entrusted them with all that he cared about, and—and—

And now he felt betrayed by no one so much as himself.  How could he have missed this—and how dare he think thus now; how dare he place himself as the victim when his husband had nearly died last night, when the whole delegation of visiting dwarves feared one of them would be the next—?

He dug his fingernails into his palms as hard as he could, hoping the pain would ground him in the moment—in what he needed to do.  Always before he had moved forward, no matter how strong the panic or loneliness that threatened to hold him back, and so he would do now, even if he felt there was no way to go on.

He looked around at the room, taking in the mess once more, and drew himself together.  If he must move, he would at least channel that motion into something useful, something that might steady his scattered thoughts.

“I must clean this room,” he said, and turned to Eleniel.  “While I do this, will you fetch Celair?  I think it would be best for the three of us to confer.”

* * *

Eleniel and Celair did not return until Legolas had straightened and scrubbed the whole house until it sparkled.  Surely they had arrived earlier, but they had not disturbed him, and he had not heard him—any attention he had not paid to his task had been focused on listening to any change in Gimli’s breathing.  His husband continued to sleep, but his breathing remained steady if shallow, and Legolas could only think that was hopeful.

He could not, not at this moment, allow himself to think otherwise.

They sat on the floor in a loose triangle, Legolas leaning against the bed, the better to feel the motions of Gimli’s breathing.  The bedsheets were among the only things he had not cleaned—those and Gimli’s nightclothes—and that he would do as soon as Gimli was awake and well enough to be moved.  He had even washed and braided Gimli’s beard, so that Gimli might not awake and be disgusted at its lankness. 

The act of cleaning had steadied him, he felt—had drawn his scattered thoughts back to his purpose, had helped him pull together his fears and build up an iron wall around them, to be confronted later or not at all.  Now was the time to move forward—to determine what had happened, and how to prevent it ever happening again.

“The dwarves demand an investigation, and of course it must be done,” Legolas said.  His voice sounded like a stranger’s, unfamiliar in his own ears.  “But I confess, I know not where to begin.”

“We must ask ourselves who might have done such a thing,” said Eleniel.  “We know our people better than our visitors do, after all.  Surely we, if anyone, ought to be able to determine why such a thing might be done, and who might have done it.”

“So I would have thought,” said Legolas, spreading his hands in a helpless fan, “but—”

“I understand.”  Celair cut him off before he could decide what he would have said, hir voice sympathetic.  “It burns my heart as well, to think that something could have gone so terribly wrong—to think that somehow, our land is not as safe as we had imagined it to be.”

“And yet if we are all so shocked by this, how are we to begin asking questions?”  There were some twelve dozen elves here; speaking to each one individually could be done, but it could hardly be done quickly enough for the liking of their guests, and there was no telling that they would be able to determine the truth even if it could.  “It is enough to make me wish for the gifts of the Lady Galadriel, for powers beyond my own.”

“Your instincts are worthy of trust, Legolas,” Eleniel began to object, but he cut her off, unable to bear it.

“They cannot be, or I would have seen this coming!  Or would have an idea who it could be—but there is nothing!  Clearly I have erred somehow, but still, even in the aftermath, I cannot see how!”

“Legolas,” said Eleniel gently.  “Do not spend so much energy in cruelty to yourself.”

She was right, he knew—he breathed deeply and set his jaw.  “Of course,” he said.  “I cannot afford to spend time in self-pity when there is work to be done.”  Was it not what he had reminded himself, after all —that this was not about _him_ , and to focus on his own feelings was nothing but selfishness?

“That is not what I—”

“Have either of you any suggestions beyond merely speaking to all who may have been responsible?”  His voice was too loud, his words too sudden and clumsy, but she was about to be kind to him, and he could not bear that—not now.  “I can begin making arrangements now, but I know not how to go about asking questions, especially not when my own instincts are so fallible.”

“We may not need to merely plunge in,” said Celair, holding up a hand.  “There are things we can examine first, that may allow us to determine who is more likely to be suspected.”

“Yes—we know who came here most recently, after all,” said Legolas.  “Perhaps those who are newer to our community are more likely to be suspicious of dwarves, or to hold attitudes they have been less able to hide—” His stomach tightened at the thought; to cast this suspicion over his folk, those he had trusted with his life and his future, felt like wrapping a blanket over part of his soul and smothering it to nothingness.  And the thought of approaching any of them and asking if they had done such a thing—!

“I meant more practical considerations, Legolas,” said Celair.  “We need not jump directly into questions and thinly-veiled accusations.”  Ze offered him a very small, dry smile.  “We can examine the food that was served and see if we uncover traces of poison.  We can ask those who sat near him if they witnessed anything odd. And if we find anything, we might be better able to construct a trail for ourselves to follow, rather than merely asking questions of anyone we encounter.”

“Of course.”  Legolas felt himself flushing with embarrassment and relief.  “Practical considerations; you are right.  I have—it seems I have forgotten how to be practical.”  Gimli was ever the practical one, and after a decade with him, it seemed Legolas had allowed the skill to slide away.

“You assume that you ever had the ability.”  Eleniel’s tone held a tentative note of laughter, but the words hung in the air for a moment, for Legolas to decide if he wished to go along with the jest or brush it aside.

Before he could decide, he heard a faint noise behind him; the sheets rustled.  As though summoned by Legolas’s recent thought, Gimli was stirring.

Legolas twisted up on his knees; behind him, he could feel Eleniel and Celair doing their best to fade into the background—not leaving, in case he needed them, but making themselves as scarce as they might.  Or perhaps it merely seemed that way because of how quickly they were pushed into the background of his thoughts.

At the sight of Gimli’s fluttering eyelids, all the fear and shame and concern threatened to overcome Legolas again, but he pushed it down firmly and reached forward to brush a thumb over Gimli’s cheek.  “Gimli?” he said softly.

“Le…” Again only the first syllable of his name rasped from Gimli’s throat; he seemed too exhausted to force forth the rest of the sound.

“I am here.”  Legolas traced down Gimli’s jawline, scratching the tips of his fingers through the hair in the way that Gimli had always loved.  “How do you feel?”

“Water?” croaked Gimli.

“Yes.”  Legolas rose to fill a cup, his knees shaking in relief; Eleniel and Celair moved out of his way as he hurried back to the bed.  “I will help you sit up.”

He propped Gimli up once more and gave him the water, sip by slow sip—and every tiny swallow sent a flood of sensation down Legolas’s body, as though he were a sand castle slowly crumbling into a pile.  He had never grown used to this—he was better at caring for Gimli, certainly, than he had been in earlier days, but every time, the crushing, gripping terror was the same—not least this time, when he knew Gimli had truly come close to death.

He had thought to ask more, when Gimli finished drinking—perhaps what he remembered of the night before, perhaps if he wished the investigation performed in any particular way—but Gimli’s eyes had hardly stayed half-open throughout the process.  Already they were falling shut, and Legolas could not bear to press him—not now.  So instead he settled Gimli back onto his pillows, turning him onto his side as Aragorn had arranged him, and listened carefully again to his heartbeat and breathing, to make sure that both were still steady, if not strong.  But Gimli did not need long to fall asleep once more, and once he had, Legolas turned back to his two companions.

“Ought we to check the leftover food, then?” he said.  It seemed the first step, not only because it might lead them to a trail, but also—and again he cringed at the shame of not having thought of this earlier—to ensure that no traces of poison might make their way to any other unwitting victim.

“Let us do so,” said Celair.  “But first, Legolas, I think you ought to rest.  You have been up all night, have you not?”

Legolas blinked.  He had, but… that was hardly unusual for any elf, and especially not for him.  “What does that—?”

Before he could finish, there was a rap on the door: the knock too solid to be anyone but a dwarf.  Legolas looked around in sudden panic, wishing he had had time to straighten up—and then remembering that he had done so, and feeling foolish—and finally managing a quiet, “Enter.”

Torri poked his head into the door.  “Lord Legolas.”  His gaze passed over where the three elves sat on the floor, and his eyes narrowed slightly, though he gave no other hint of emotion.  “Though some of our number have been persuaded against returning to Aglarond until our lord has recovered, we have decided that we would summon others of our colony to support us—and it is only right that Lord Gimli’s second be alerted.  A message will be carried by the raven that accompanied us.  We thought it only right to inform you, so that if you wished to send any personal missive to Aglarond—or to be passed on to Erebor, perhaps—you might have the chance to do so.”

 _Personal missive—_ an apology, of course, or an explanation.  Some part of Legolas bristled at the quiet insult—only to be stifled by the smothering guilt, mingled with gratitude at the opportunity to explain himself, rather than rely on others to tell the story—

“Of course,” he breathed.  “Of course, I—I will begin that now; I am grateful to you for allowing me the opportunity to explain.”

Torri glanced once more back and forth between the three elves until Legolas’s stomach had twisted itself into a painful knot, before nodding at last—omitting the usual bow—and departing, closing the door behind him.

“We will begin our examinations later,” said Legolas.  “First I must—I must—”

“We understand,” said Eleniel, and with a light brush of her hand over Legolas’s shoulder, she and Celair rose and left him alone.


	4. Chapter 4

With no other noise in the room, the sound of Gimli’s muffled breathing was like the roaring of ocean waves in Legolas’s dreams: loud and suffocating and nearly overpowering.  But he must remind himself that this sound was recovery—promise—life.  He must remember.  He must not lose hope.

He sat beside the bed, with a scroll of paper spread out over the table, weighted down with stones.  He held his reed pen, freshly dipped in ink—though he thought he might never look at anything made with charcoal powder in the same way again—poised over the paper, waiting for the words to come.

They did not.

What ought he to write?  A letter to Alma, from one leader to another—for leader she was, at least until Gimli regained his strength and his senses?  To Gimli’s parents, to be sent on to Erebor?  Ought he to be formal?  Apologetic?  How was he to explain what had happened, how was he to apologize, without taking all the fault onto himself—or sounding as though he wished to shift it away from his shoulders?

A drop of ink fell from the pen to spatter the paper, and the knot in Legolas’s stomach yanked tight. The paper was ruined before he had begun to make his mark on it, and he could not help but feel that the same had happened to his friendships, to his settlement, to all the trust he had tried so hard to build.

To his love, to his marriage, to Gimli’s life.

Behind him, Gimli slept on, breathing in, out, in, out.  Legolas felt himself swaying with the sound, as though if it stopped, he would crumple to the floor, all his supports yanked away.

Another drop of ink fell from the pen, and the sight blurred before his eyes.

In, out, in, out.  Legolas found his own breath matching the shallow patterns, and still he sat.

He moved his pen towards the paper, and stopped.

In.

Out.

One arm wrapped around his belly, pressing against the painful tightness there.  The other still held the pen.  Steady?  He did not know anymore.

In.

Out.

Gimli had not stirred in some time.  Why had he not stirred?  Ought Legolas now to worry?  But still his heart beat steadily, and still his breath moved slowly in and out, and Aragorn would have told him if he needed to fear.

In.

Out.

No longer did he think of what he ought to write in the letter – that thought had blurred into a sort of fear-haze, one which did not spike into true panic unless his thoughts strayed too close to it.  So they did not.  He stared instead at the pen, which had at last stopped dripping, and he thought vaguely that he ought to begin writing soon, but instead he merely stared at it, and listened to Gimli breathe in out in out...

“Legolas?”

He started—he had not heard anyone come in.  “Eleniel?”

She came to stand beside him and looked down at the paper before him.  “Legolas—have you been in here all day?”

“Have I...” He blinked.  “I have not yet thought of what to write, Eleniel.  How am I to tell Alma what has happened?  And how should I hope to write to Gimli’s parents?”

“Legolas,” she said gently.  “The dwarves have already sent their message.”

“They...” He stared around himself, only now taking in the change of the light streaming in, the shadows lengthened along the floor.  It was afternoon suddenly, though he did not know how it had come about.  “No.  They cannot have—"

“I am sorry,” Eleniel said.  “I ought to have come and alerted you, but I thought that you were resting and I did not wish to disturb you.”

He shook his head; his fingers contracted on the table, and the paper wrinkled beneath them, the sharp tip of the pen cutting into the side of his hand.  “They cannot have… no.  Now they will believe that I cared not to send word.”

Eleniel pried his fingers away from the pen; he let her, though he could hardly feel her hands as they turned his palm to examine it.  The pen had dented the skin, but not broken it, and after a moment Eleniel let his hand go and tugged him up instead.

“There is nothing you can do for it now,” she said.  “And even if they do not listen to you, you can explain to Alma when she arrives.  She will understand.”

“I hardly understand myself; how can she?”  Miserably, Legolas allowed Eleniel to guide him to his feet.  “I am sorry, Eleniel; I feel I must offer this apology in advance.  I regret that I will be even more insufferable than usual, until this horror is resolved.”

“You are not insufferable, Legolas,” she said.  “Except perhaps when you become so convinced that you are—no, do not listen to me; I did not mean that.  But you must trust that Celair and I, and those of us who care for you, will stand by you in this.  We will willingly do all we can to assist you, and you need not apologize for asking our aid.”

“Trust,” he echoed.  What could he trust anymore?  But... “I do trust you, Eleniel.  And I am never ungrateful to you.”

“I know,” she said.  “As I am grateful to have you.  But now, I tell you as your friend and as your second that you must rest.  Your spirit—and your investigation, on the morrow—will be better for it.”

He knew she was right—oh, he knew—but the tight knot in his belly twinged at the thought of lying down in silence—of opening himself up to the vulnerability of his own mind.  He would not be able to rest, and even the thought of trying sent sharp pangs of guilt shooting through him, tiny arrows with unerring accuracy.

“If I can,” he promised at last, and she left him—seeming unsatisfied but resigned—once more to his quiet home and his sleeping husband.

Legolas arranged himself once more on the side of the bed, gazing down at Gimli and listening hard for any change in his breathing.  If he could not begin with his questioning today, he would spend this time at Gimli’s side, to ensure that he would yet be well.  It would be the closest to rest that he might manage—for he knew in his heart that he would not sleep until this waking nightmare came to an end.

* * *

He sat with Gimli for only an hour or so before the dwarf began to stir.

This time, his waking was smoother than before; when he blinked his eyes open, they were clear, devoid of the haze that had clouded them before. As this morning, he wanted water before anything else, but when Legolas had finished helping him drink, Gimli caught his wrist before he could withdraw.

“What is it?” Legolas asked.  “Do you want more?”

“Yes,” said Gimli quietly, “in time.  First...” He frowned around the room.  “What happened?”

“What do you remember?” Legolas asked carefully.  Perhaps Gimli might even remember something that would give him a clue as to how he might move forward, what sorts of questions he might ask.

“I remember... the feast.”  Gimli squeezed Legolas’s wrist very lightly, and Legolas slid his hand down to lace their fingers together.  “Aragorn spoke, and you did.”  He smiled, very faintly.  “Beautifully.  And there were candles.”

“Yes.”

“Then we went home.”  Gimli frowned.  “I felt unwell.”

Legolas nodded, pressing his cheek into Gimli’s hair.  The dwarf’s body moved with his breath and his voice: steady, reassuring motion.  “And then?”

“And then... it is hazy.”  Gimli’s brow wrinkled.  “Aragorn was here, and—I recall a clamp, I think.  Did he put my head in a vise?”

Legolas swallowed hard at the lump in his throat.  “He did not,” he said.  “But you said something of being squeezed.  Is that what you remember?”

“Perhaps.  It is hard to say.”  Gimli turned his head, very slowly and carefully, to look up at Legolas.  “Was I very ill, Legolas?”

Legolas took a shaky breath and nodded.

Gimli looked frightened, in a way Legolas knew he would never have displayed before any other.  “What is the matter?” he asked.  “And is something still wrong?”

Legolas did not speak at first, stalling while he lowered Gimli back down onto the pillows, so that he would not have to support both of their weight for this.  “That is what I ought to be asking you,” he said.  “How do you feel now?”

“Tired.”  Gimli’s eyes sank shut, and then opened again in a slow catlike blink.  “And thirsty, and my stomach is aching and empty, but I know not if I dare to eat.  My head pounds as though it has become a forge, but no longer does it feel as though it will be pressed until I suffocate.  And I know that my husband is not telling me something.”  He looked into Legolas’s eyes, very seriously.  “What happened, Legolas?  What is it that you will not say?”

“Do you...” He was stalling, he knew, because still he could not bear to say the words—not to Gimli’s face.  “Do you remember anything odd about the feast last night?  Anyone acting unusually, or any strange tastes, or—"

“Legolas,” said Gimli.  “Please do not delay in this.  Please tell me what is wrong—for if it concerns me, and if it brings you such distress, I think I deserve to know.”

“You are right,” Legolas whispered.  “As usual.”  He tried a smile, but it slipped quickly off of his face.  “Very well.  We know not what might have been used, or who might have done it, but the sudden onset and the symptoms of your illness have led us to believe that you must have been,” his throat dried out completely, the last word coming in a croak, “poisoned.”

There was silence for a long moment, neither of them saying a word.  Legolas found he could hardly bear to look at Gimli, suddenly unsure how he might react—for he had never thought such a thing could happen to them—and yet the thought of looking away was even worse.

Gimli’s face grew bright red, and Legolas wondered for a moment if he would react in anger, and feared for his well-being if that should be the case—but then Gimli shook his head and looked down in disgust.  “Pathetic.”

“Gimli?” said Legolas.

Gimli looked back up, managing a tiny smile, though still his face was flushed with some strange combination of what seemed anger and embarrassment.  “The first attempt on my life,” he said, “and it comes from a drug slipped into my food by a nameless coward?  Pathetic!”  He squeezed Legolas’s hand.  “No years-long attempt to infiltrate my guard and attack me when no one suspected it, giving me the opportunity to cleverly disarm him and hold him up as an example to the other guards of always being prepared for an attack.  No elaborate plan to lure me into a cunning trap, from which I would never return, and which would appear an accident, giving me the opportunity to use years of tracking skills to maneuver around their trap.  Not even an open challenge before the public, allowing me to demonstrate my skill in combat!”  He shook his head again.  “Aragorn has all the good fortune.”

Legolas exhaled hard, feeling heat rush into his own cheeks.  “You are jesting about this?” he said, his voice shooting up higher than he liked, his attempts at composure cracking.  “After all your pain, and my fear, and—"

“What should I do other than jest?” said Gimli, all the humor leaving his face and voice as he slumped back against his pillows.  “I will be furious tomorrow, no doubt, but I have not the strength for that today.”

“No,” Legolas said softly, all the energy of his own distress flushed out as quickly as it had come on.  Gimli’s eyes were drifting closed again already.  “I suppose you have not.”  He waited for Gimli to respond, though the comment had been nothing even near to a goad—but Gimli said nothing for a long while.  Legolas followed his lead, though he knew not why; it was easy to drift into silence with Gimli, who never expected or needed it to be filled.

Such silence _from_ Gimli was abnormal, particularly mid-conversation, and finally Legolas shook off the fog that had descended on him, and touched Gimli’s cheek.  “My love?”

“Mm,” said Gimli after another moment.  “Tired.”

“Oh!”  Legolas remembered Aragorn’s words.  “Well, you may sleep, but will you not drink another cup of water first?  You have not had enough today.”

Without opening his eyes, Gimli gave a bleary laugh.  “No, Legolas,” he said.  “That will put the fire out.  We need more kindling first.”

“Gimli?”  The words had no sense—was he becoming delirious again?  Legolas looked around the room as though seeking the fire that Gimli spoke of, though he knew he would see nothing.  Indeed, his eyes hardly took in what they saw, passing over the table and chair in the room at least twice before he finally registered what was there.  “Gimli?  Love?”

Gimli’s eyes fluttered half open, hazy with confusion.  “Ought to have learned to build a proper fire by now,” he slurred, and Legolas knew not if he dreamed, or if he did not recognize the waking world.

“Gimli,” Legolas said carefully, trying to still the hummingbird flutter in his chest, “are you awake?”

“Hmm?”  The murmur gave Legolas no good answer, and yet the more he prodded the less likely it seemed that he would receive a better.  Gimli seemed drifted off past coherency, and yet he continued to refuse the water that Legolas offered him, accepting only a few sips before drifting off into true slumber once more—the same deep, still, shallow-breathed sleep as before, that Legolas did not trust, but could do nothing but allow.

But for himself, that night Legolas slept not at all.


	5. Chapter 5

Aragorn returned to him early in the morning.

“How does he fare?” he asked, but did not wait for an answer before moving directly to the edge of the bed and bending down to look for himself.

“You would know better than I,” said Legolas.  “But he woke for a few moments in the evening.  His memory was hazy, but his mind seemed mostly clear—at the beginning, anyway.”

“He woke?” Aragorn turned sharply to look at him; Gimli did not even stir at the motion.  “Did he remember anything?”

“Flashes only, but I told him of our suspicions.”  Now that the moment was over, the fear and anger passed, the absurdity of it was _almost_ enough to make Legolas smile, for a split second.  “He expressed his envy of you for your more dramatic assassination attempts.”

Aragorn was more amused than Legolas, it seemed; he threw back his head and laughed.  “I think we can be assured of his eventual return to health, then,” he said.  Gimli still did not stir, and while Aragorn seemed unconcerned, Legolas’s own mirth drained away as quickly as it had come and left him hollow.  But Aragorn only sighed and sat back.  “I will sit with him for a time,” he said.  “Your seconds thought to seek you, I think.”

Legolas nodded.  The dread of the moment had not receded, but he hardly had the option of escaping it.  “I am sure,” he said.  “And I imagine the guards from Aglarond were eager as well.”

Aragorn’s lips tightened as he nodded.  “They trust the two of us, I think—after the night before last, they could hardly not.  And I think they know you are not adept at feigning your emotions.”  He gave Legolas an apologetic look, but Legolas could only nod in concession to the point.  “But I doubt Gimli will find himself alone with any other, until he has recovered in full—and your seconds find themselves already shadowed at all times.”

Legolas sighed unhappily.  “I am sure you are right,” he said.  “But I cannot blame them, even if I wish I could—and indeed, perhaps their rightful suspicion will help me see sense when I would be inclined to blindness.”  For he could not believe—or perhaps could not allow himself to believe—that someone could have knowingly done this thing.  The thought sent his stomach into winding knots of wrongness, of _please no_ that could not, it seemed, be untwisted.  To think of one he had trusted so implicitly doing something so reprehensible—betraying the very foundations of the society they had built, of Legolas’s own life and his tethers to this land—to think that one of his people had, after all this time—a blink of an eye to an elf, perhaps, but not in something so new, not when they could witness such change and such growth in so few years—to think that one of his trusted companions had wished harm to _Gimli—_

“I will go,” he said abruptly, standing.  “Eleniel and Celair have shielded me for long enough, and surely garnered undue suspicion to themselves.  I will go now, and take onto my own shoulders what blame I deserve for this atrocity.”

* * *

Eleniel and Celair were waiting for him not far from his home, with Lis standing beside them, looking reluctant.

“Lord Legolas,” she said, when he had emerged, “please know that I would not do this, that I wish I need not—"

“I understand,” he said, raising a hand to stop her.  “Truly, Lis, I do, and you and your people need offer me no apologies.  It is only I who can offer my own, over and over again, though they will never suffice.”

“Finding the guilty party will suffice,” said Lis, before Eleniel (who had opened her mouth) could protest.  “Mistake me not, Lord Legolas, I know that you have suffered from this deed as much as any save my own lord.  I too seek justice and resolution, for my lord’s sake first of all, and then for yours as much as my own.”

“I thank you for your support,” Legolas murmured, “and your trust.”  Though he did not deserve it.  “Eleniel, Celair, I thank you for yours as well.  The king said you had perhaps begun with your investigations.  Have you anything to recount?”

“Nothing we have done, only what we propose to do,” said Celair.  “We wished to wait for you before we began.”

Legolas took a deep breath.  “Well,” he said bravely, “I am here.”

“That you are.”  He wondered if Celair thought now too on his childhood, when the age difference between the two of them had been more substantial and ze one of his most common informal teachers.  “Well, as we discussed yesterday, we might begin by examining the food that was eaten.  As you remember, it is possible that if this poison was of natural origin, we might be able to trace it to its source, and thus determine who might have accessed it.”

For the first time, Legolas felt a spark of hope in his chest.  It could be done, it was true—he remembered suddenly, breathlessly, long afternoons as a child, sitting with Celair and Siril, the sister they both shared, learning to be quiet, to listen, to breathe the air of the forest and sink into all that grew and lived there— to trace each individual note of song back to its source and learn of what was amiss and what was well in the forest, what flourished and what ailed.  It was a forest enchantment many of their kind knew, and one in which Celair and Siril had always had uncommon skill.

"Did you try already?" he asked Celair, though ze had already assured him that they had not begun.  Still, he found he could not keep himself from hoping—perhaps hoping that they would have found something already, that somehow this whole terrible matter could be resolved more quickly and easily than he had feared...

Or perhaps, a less charitable voice in his mind suggested nastily, perhaps he merely hoped that he would not have to do the difficult work that all this entailed.

Though he knew that voice was probably right, he did his best to silence it anyway.

"No," Celair said.  “Not only did we wish to wait for you, but—" Hir eyes flashed to Lis, standing still reluctantly by hir side— “we did not want to give our visitors any reason to doubt our intentions by beginning unobserved.”

"Of course," said Legolas, but inwardly his stomach coiled even tighter.  It was for him to do this thing, then, but he remembered very well the sort of silence and peace that was needed.  It was something he had only ever been able to accomplish deep in the forest, leagues away from all others who might have had demands or expectations of him or his station; something he could only ever do when he truly shut out all else and put his mind at peace.  Here—now—

He tried to relax into it as they made their way to where the feasting tables still lay spread with the remnants of their celebrations.  (Surely the cleaning efforts ought to have begun by now, but doubtless after the events of the previous night, no one had dared to touch what was left behind—perhaps for fear of falling under suspicion?) But the harder he tried, the more quickly any peace he might have found evaded his reach, as though his grasping fingers merely tore it into fewer and finer shreds, and by the time they reached the tables, Legolas felt it was a wonder that he had not simply shuddered into tiny pieces.

He closed his eyes, but the first deep breath evaded him, and by the second he felt as though the air itself had turned solid, and refused to enter his chest the way it ought.

"I cannot," he rasped at last, fighting the urge to sink to the ground.  "I am sorry, Celair.  Please?"

"Very well; I will try," ze said.  Ze dropped to a cross-legged position on the ground and closed hir eyes.

Legolas watched hir face in something like awe—hir control over hir emotions was something he had never understood, but had always admired.  Any tension or fear ze might have felt fell away, the ripples of concern in hir face smoothing over until it was still as the pond in Lorien where Legolas had brought Gimli so long ago—

He felt Eleniel's hand come to rest on his arm and squeeze in support.  He could not muster the voice to thank her.

They watched together as Celair sat in silence, and even as distant as he was Legolas could feel the slight change in hir spirit, in the note that ze added to the song that encompassed them all.  A slight twinge, as though someone had plucked the wrong string of a harp, and then—

Ze opened hir eyes, and the peace on hir face folded into a small confused frown.  Legolas’s stomach turned into an echoing chasm before ze had even begun speaking.

"You will not like to hear this, Legolas," ze said, "but I found nothing amiss."

"Nothing?"  That—Legolas had hoped, if nothing else, to at least know what it was that had affected Gimli so, what substance he might blame as much as the one who had planted it.  At best, he had hoped for some clue as the identity of that person.  To find nothing... "Nothing at all?" he repeated.  "You are sure?"

"I am sorry, Legolas," said Celair.  "I am sure."

He felt as though something within him were falling, falling and shrinking at once, though he could not name it.  “Ah,” he said, though his voice sounded strange to his own ears.

“Do you think it was not in the food, then?” said Eleniel.  “That no mistake might have been made and no one else made victim?”

“Perhaps.”  He was thinking out loud now.  “Or perhaps it was only in one small portion of his dish, so that it was all eaten, or perhaps someone has been here since and cleared it away, that we would not find it.  I know not.”                                               

“You do not think...?” Celair did not finish hir sentence, but rather let hir words trail off into nothing—but ze did not need to finish, for he knew what ze meant.

“I do not,” he said, though it was true that for moments his stomach had leapt with a wild and foolish hope.  “An illness so sudden and so violent—and the worst so quickly passed—that is not normal for mortals; I know this now, and Aragorn better than I.  It can only be that somehow foul play was involved, much as I despise the thought.”

Lis had been quiet as they spoke; she looked up now.  “And you would have been able to detect this poison if it were of living origin?” she said.

Celair shrugged.  “I believe so,” ze said.  “Of course, I am fallible and my skills imperfect.  I do regret that I could not assist you, Legolas.  I wish it were otherwise.”

“As do I,” said Legolas softly.  “But why do you ask us this?”

“There are other poisons than plants,” Lis said, “metals or other substances that might have been used to cause such harm.  Merely because you have found nothing does not suggest that there was nothing to be found.”

Legolas nodded glumly, though it was no less than he had thought already.

“But are there not men here as well as elves?” suggested Lis.  “It could have been one of the king’s men, or—or one of Faramir’s people who left, or...”

Her voice grew quieter as she spoke, finally trailing weakly off, the hopeful tone giving way to the likely reality of the situation.

“Perhaps,” said Legolas, “but—" He hated to admit it, but he knew he must; it would be no use denying to himself— “but they have much less likely motivation than one of my people, loath as I am to say so.”

“I know,” Lis said softly.  “But whatever you may think, I do not like to say so.”

“I understand, and I thank you.”  He understood the tearing of loyalty all too well, did he not—the conflict that ought not be, and yet now seemed so inevitable?  “But I cannot allow my wishes to cloud my thoughts.”

“We will ask questions of our people, then,” said Eleniel, drifting to stand beside Legolas, a supportive hand coming to rest on his shoulder.  “And we will spread the word, if you wish, Legolas.  That will allow everyone a day to prepare, and you to go back to your husband.”

“Yes,” added Lis, before Legolas could answer; she sounded eager, as though to reassure him once more of her support.  “Yes, go see to my lord, and I will bring word to my companions that you have begun to investigate, and will comply with their demands.”

* * *

Legolas’s apprehension only built as he returned home, instead of lessening—left alone with his thoughts, he had no way to keep them from slipping into darker depths.  By the time he reached his home, he was so agitated that he could not bring himself to enter right away, stopping to listen at the door before daring to slip inside.  He heard no voices, no noises other than breathing, and he could only assume that was a good thing.

Arwen sat with Gimli, having clearly spelled Aragorn as they waited for Legolas to return, and she smiled at him when he came in.  “Well met, my friend,” she said.  “How do you fare now?”

With a sudden flush of heat in his cheeks, Legolas remembered that he had not seen Arwen since the morning before, when he had fallen apart so shamefully in his relief at Gimli’s promised recovery.  “Well enough,” he said, which was true enough— _he_ at least had not lain asleep for the last several hours.  “How does he fare—and you, of course?”

Arwen smiled as he clenched his hands in sudden dismay at the way he had spoken, kinder than he deserved.  “I am well, and it is good of you to ask,” she said.  “I am recovered from my night without sleep, though I see that you have not had the same fortune.”

Legolas blinked at her for a moment before the sense of her words seeped into his mind.  No, perhaps he had not slept, but then, he was more an elf than she, and he needed it not.  His spirit found more peace sitting beside Gimli and listening to his breathing than sinking into any kind of dreams—and anyway, what little peace he could find was far from adequate to allow for rest.  How could he take such a luxury, when he knew that somehow a murderer lurked in his lands?  “I need it not,” he said finally, brushing her off, and trying to ignore the delicate line that formed between her brows.  She ought not concern herself with his well-being!  “But how is Gimli?”

“He too is well enough, though he could be better,” she said.  “He has not had enough to drink, and it will slow his recovery, but he does not stay awake long enough to drink what he should.  He is yet worn from his taxing first night, I think, and Aragorn and I both think it no cause for great alarm, so long as we continue giving him water when he wakes.”

“Well, I will be sure to do that when he rises, and I will spell you as he sleeps now,” said Legolas.  Surely the dwarves might forgive him yet a few hours in their lord’s company, before he must set his shoulder to the massive task that loomed before him.  “Perhaps he will wake, and I can coax him to drink.”

“I will leave you, then,” said Arwen.  “But summon me if you need anything I can provide.”

“I will,” promised Legolas, and meant it.  For himself, he might not ask, but for Gimli, he would ask anything of anyone.

And then he was alone with his husband, and he bent his head close to listen to Gimli’s breathing.  Still it was shallow and steady; still his heart beat—still there was no cause for alarm, or should not be.  And yet it was not natural, seeing him so still for so long.  Were this a natural sleep, Gimli would have woken long since.  He would have liked, perhaps, to stay in bed a bit longer than he ought—he loved long, lazy mornings in bed—but he would have risen full of energy and excitement for the day, prepared to begin some new task or continue some already begun...

Legolas lifted one of Gimli’s hands from the sheets and considered it.  It felt slightly colder than it ought, he thought, and began to chafe it gently—in part to warm it, in part to give his own hands something to do.

He heard the rustling, the change in Gimli’s breath, before the dwarf opened his eyes.  “Legolas?” he croaked.

“I am sorry if I woke you,” said Legolas, but he could not feel entirely sorry, not with the relief that overwhelmed him upon watching Gimli’s eyelashes flutter.

Gimli shook his head, and then promptly winced, his whole face screwing up.  “Water?” Legolas asked, before Gimli could speak, and Gimli started to nod, grimaced again, and then mouthed _yes_.

Legolas filled a cup for him and propped him up.  “Does your head ache?” he asked, as he helped Gimli to sip.

“Yes,” Gimli murmured.  “Though ‘ache’ does not feel strong enough.”

Legolas felt his lips tighten in concern.  He knew that Gimli had lost too much water two nights before, and yet he hesitated to give him more too quickly, for fear that the nausea would return and he would only lose more.  “I am sorry,” he said, hating how trapped he felt, hating that this had happened, hating the one responsible—and who was it? And why could he not trust his own people anymore, and why must he fear that it would happen again?  Why must he fear for Gimli still, for the other dwarves who now faced potential threats to their own lives—

And how dare he feel like the victim in this, when it was his guests who had been targeted?

It was the same problem, the same mental circle, and yet it would not stop; he felt as though it dug its way deeper into his mind each time, until he wished to either curl up into a tiny ball or scream until he had no breath or voice left.

He did neither.  Instead, he forced himself to smile down at Gimli.  “I am sorry,” he repeated.  “But we will do all that we can to make it less painful.”

“I know,” said Gimli, his eyes mostly closed.  “If there is anything I know, it is that.”  The cup was only half-empty; already his sips had grown slower, more reluctant.  “But I have wasted enough time already, surely.  You ought not have let me lie abed so long!”

“You may rest as long as you like, my love,” said Legolas.  He could not tell if Gimli spoke out of a confused memory or if he merely expressed impatience with his weakness, but either way, Legolas meant to reassure him.  “You are ill, and you are on holiday; do you remember?”

“I...” Gimli frowned, and Legolas’s body went cold.  “Yes,” he said finally, but a note of worry had entered his voice.  “I feel... Legolas, I feel as though I remember, and I ought to know more, but it is just out of reach.”  He screwed up his face and pressed a hand to his forehead.  “I know what has happened, but there is a haze in my mind, and if it would only clear—"

“It will,” Legolas reassured him, ignoring the curl of icy fear in his belly.  Now was no time to break down, and perhaps that time would never come.  He must remain calm, despite every instinct screaming that everything was falling apart around him.  “You are not well yet, my dear.  Your mind will clear in time.  Only—will you finish the water?”

Gimli let Legolas pour the rest of the water down his throat in slow sips, but he showed little enthusiasm for it, and slumped back onto the pillows when it was finished.  “So tired,” he murmured.  “I feel I ought to be frustrated, and yet I lack even the strength for that.”

“It will return,” Legolas promised him.  “But one more drink before you sleep, please?  For me?”

Gimli seemed more asleep than awake, but he drank obediently, perhaps aware enough of his weakness to encourage him to comply.  Once the cup was empty, his eyes fluttered open one last time as Legolas set it aside.

“Will you hold my hand?” he murmured.  “Until I fall asleep?”

“Of course.”  Legolas did not even need to reply, but said the words even as he reached for Gimli’s hand and folded it between his own.  “To carry you into sweeter dreams.”

Gimli was not long awake—it was only moments before he succumbed again to a sleep more restless than before.  Still Legolas clasped his hand, humming a melody as soothing as he could manage—though he could not sing as he wished, not from deep within him.  Too much surged against the shoddy walls in his heart—shame and fear and pain and distress—and he must hold up those walls as best he could, else who knew what might come out of him?

He hummed softly instead, familiar melodies, not allowing his voice or his thoughts to stray from the paths he had allowed them.  He stroked Gimli’s hand, then his hair, ran a thumb softly over the cracked lips.  There was no feature on Gimli that Legolas did not know and adore; no state in which the dwarf ever found himself could make him less beloved—and yet Legolas had never seen him so ill before, and it threatened every second to reduce him to a wreck of himself.

But there was no time for that, for it was not long before he heard raised voices outside.

He did not rush in extracting himself from Gimli, in carefully lowering the dwarf’s hand back to the bed.  But as soon as he was clear of Gimli and would not disturb him, he sprang to his feet and dashed outside.

“—that you are unwilling to trust,” Celair was saying, in a voice louder than hir wont, but determinedly level.  “For that, I can do nothing.  But I cannot twist truth to better suit you, and have no inclination to do so.”

“But you can!” said Frai.  “You are the only one here in possession of truth; why should you not twist it to suit your own purposes?  You say there was no poison, and we have no choice but to believe you!”

“Ze does not say—” began Eleniel, her tone hot, but Celair waved her down, the frost in hir voice enough to chill even the flaming anger in her eyes.

“If, as you say, I could have twisted the truth to suit myself,” ze said, “I could have easily turned the finger of suspicion in the direction of any other.”  Hir height was more apparent compared to dwarves than ever to elves, but even Legolas felt suddenly small in hir shadow.  “I could have led a campaign against another I despised and turned prying eyes away from myself.  I did not.  I share what I know, because I have naught to gain from deception.  I have no interest in hindering the discovery of who could have acted so against Lord Gimli.  Trust in my loyalty to my own lord, if you will allow nothing else.”

“And yet loyalty to one’s own lord can be read in many different ways, if you will permit,” said Northin, bowing his head to Celair.  “Forgive me, for I mean no disrespect against you, but I merely point out that no one may be exempt from suspicion merely due to closeness with Lord Legolas.”  He truly did look apologetic, and perhaps Legolas could even understand his logic, had it not been for the way he continued.  “Loyalty to one’s lord is not always loyalty to that lord’s spouse; indeed, in many cases, they are exactly the opposite.  For are not loyalty and love similar?”

Legolas lost his hold on his jaw muscles; even Celair appeared taken off guard; ze had clearly not expected anything like this.  Some kind of outburst boiled wordlessly down in Legolas’s chest, within the walls he had constructed, for he had not expected such an accusation, for such a reason.  Was Northin suggesting—?

“I do not suggest that this might be the reason,” the dwarf added in a rush, as though sensing the anger that would soon be unleashed on him.  “I merely remind you that no one may be beyond suspicion—indeed,” and his gaze touched on both Eleniel and Celair now, “the nearer to Lord Legolas, perhaps the more worthy of investigation.”

He ought to have expected it—indeed, in some ways he had—but still it came as such a shock he could not speak.  They would implicate Celair—impossible—or Eleniel— _unthinkable_ _—_ in this, and would suggest such horrible—such _unspeakable—_

“Are you implying,” said Eleniel, her voice the dangerously false-calm that it always became when she was about to give up on words in favor of blows instead, “that I or Celair might have done this because of our loyalty to Legolas?  Are you—” and she had never been skilled in feigning that calm for long; even now her voice lowered into a hiss— “implying that this loyalty comes from... an untoward source?”

Legolas could not even bear to look at Celair; he flushed at that suggestion even as he flinched away from it—to think of this one, who was as kin to him, with whom he shared a sister—

“That is not what he suggests!” said Lis in a hurry, and Legolas felt for her attempts at peacemaking even as he struggled to quell his own rising fury with her companion, struggled to shove the indignation back behind the quivering and besieged walls in his heart.  “He merely means to say that we cannot assume innocence merely based on closeness with Lord Legolas, for we cannot know what others are thinking.”

“Well, if no one is above suspicion, then perhaps we ought to—” Legolas shoved ruthlessly down on the words that sought to escape, squelching them in his throat.  All that he was not saying, he thought, might take him off his feet if he was not careful—and yet he had no other choice but to stay standing.  And he would not let words spoken in anger turn them any further against him—for they would not take such an implied accusation lightly, even as he himself did not.

Indeed, he saw Vinar—who had been quiet throughout the conversation—watching him carefully, with narrowed eyes and a curl to his lip, and Legolas clamped his teeth together to calm himself, remembering those words again: _the true bane of Durin’s folk_.  He would not let them be true.

“Then let us move forward as we had planned,” he said, his own voice sounding strange to his ears.  “For there is no time to waste.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Thank you for agreeing to speak with me.”

The words felt ridiculous even as they left his mouth, but Legolas sealed his lips before more could surge forth and make it worse.  He sat across from Iandir, his first interviewee, in his usual meeting place—a circle of moss-covered stumps in the shadow of an olive tree.  Frai and Svi sat flanking him, with Iandir separated from each of them by another empty seat.

He did not seem much pleased by the arrangement.

“Lord Legolas, if you think there is an elf yet in Ithilien who does not know why you have called me here, you are sorely mistaken.”

“I do not pretend you do not understand; it is only, I do not—that is, I do not dissemble.  But if I do not intend to accuse you, how else ought I to begin?”  Legolas sank his teeth in his lip, feeling the eyes of the dwarves resting upon him, heavy with condemnation.

“...Very well, speak your piece.”

“As I have said, I do not assume your guilt.  I merely seek to understand.”  Already it was a disaster, but he must plow forward as best he could.  He took a deep breath.  “Can you tell me what you remember of the feast three days ago?”

* * *

“Must the cave-dwellers observe us as well?”

Torri sat forward, beard bristling.  “Such words do not speak well in your defense, Master Elf—"

“Please!” Legolas glanced back and forth between elf and dwarves: again and already the meeting was slipping out of his control.  “They observe us so they might add more eyes and ears to my own, and assess to their satisfaction the truth of both our words.  And Torri is right that you do not inspire confidence with your words.”

“I never claimed to love dwarves, Lord Legolas—not as you do, nor as some others here.  And it is true that I bristle at the suspicious eyes of these ones.  But neither does that mean I wished your husband murdered.”  Ferieth raised her eyebrows.

“And yet how shall we not suspect one who makes no effort to guard her tongue in our presence?  Who cares not if her disdain of our people is known?”  Althi’s voice was reasonable, but they too seemed offended, and Legolas cringed at the thought of alienating an ally—or worse, of losing a friend.

“Hmph!  I should rather have thought you ought to turn suspicious eyes on the one who would sweeten her tongue when speaking to you, that you should never know her thoughts.  I do not love dwarves, but I love this land.  Do you think I would do aught to jeopardize the relationships that allow us to live here?”

“I know not.”  Legolas’s last words fell heavy into the air with the weight of his own doubt.  “Indeed, I find I know less than I ever imagined.”

* * *

Legolas’s head and stomach were churning when he returned to his home from the first two interviews, thoughts tugging at the words that had been spoken, seeking to untangle truth and extract falsehood, his gut such a twisted mass of uncertainty that it offered no aid.  He was so preoccupied with his own futile thoughts that he did not even notice Gimli was awake.

“Legolas?”

Legolas blinked a few times until his eyes would focus on what was before him—Gimli, upright but draped against the pillows behind his head, paler than normal but his eyes clear.

“Gimli,” he said, now contending with the guilt of having not immediately noticed.  He swept his eyes over Gimli, seeking to force his disobedient thoughts into some semblance of order—some way of noticing whether things were well, or whether they had gone even further amiss.  “Gimli, how – how are you feeling?”

“I have been better,” his husband croaked, forcing a weak smile.  “But I will be better still when you have come to sit beside me.”

“Of course.”  Legolas’s body moved without the permission of his mind, carrying him across the floor and onto the edge of the bed.  He registered that Aragorn sat still in the chair beside the bed—oh, yes, he had been watching Gimli—if anything had changed, he would be the one to ask—

“How is he?” was all he could think to ask, even as Gimli made an indignant noise.

“Better, if not as well as I would like,” said Aragorn.  “He must drink more water, but we cannot give it to him as quickly as I would prefer, for his stomach is still easily upset.”  Gimli made a face, and Legolas took up his hand and squeezed it.  It was easier, if only a bit, to console Gimli when he had something else to think on than his own failures.  “And he does not wish to rest as I say he must.”

“And would not, if I had any other option,” Gimli grumbled, but even the fact that he did not sit up brought home the truth of Aragorn’s words.

“Well, I know that it does no good to say this, but you must listen to Aragorn.”  Legolas ran Gimli’s fingers through his own, as though testing the size and length of them—an action that he knew brought Gimli nearly as much comfort as it did to him.  “And as you focus on healing the illness in your body, I promise that I will devote as much attention to uncovering the identity of the one who did this to you, and to healing whatever disease of hatred has caused it.”

“You need not take this upon yourself, Legolas,” said Gimli, but his voice was weary as though he knew already that he would not prevail.

“Perhaps not, but I will,” said Legolas, unable to keep from giving voice to the conflict in his soul, “until I know for certain what has been done, and what I may do to keep it from ever happening again.”

* * *

“Lord Legolas—”

“You need not name me ‘lord,’ Hadril.  It is strange enough to have so many using the title; to hear it from you is stranger still.”  Not when she had fought by his side for more years than Legolas could count.

“And yet it almost feels I must, since I come before you more formally than I ever have before.”

“Do not think I suspect you—” He clamped his mouth shut before he could reveal any more of his partiality to their observers.

“I do not think you do, but with all due respect, Legolas, what do you hope to discover from this?  I do not think you believe I poisoned your husband—and let me take another moment to assure you that I did not—and had I any inkling who did, I would surely have told you before now!  Do you doubt our loyalty?”

“I cannot _but_ doubt, it seems, Hadril.”  His head felt almost too heavy to hold up, as though under the weight of a crown he did not wear.  “I know not what happened; I seek the answers I do not have so that I, and Gimli, and all in Ithilien, need not glance over our shoulders and wonder what traitor is among us, in which of us hate has triumphed over love.  And so I must ask these questions of all here, in the hopes that somehow I might find an answer.”

She sighed.  “Very well, then, Legolas.  Far be it from me to stand in your way.”

* * *

Eleniel tugged him away from his meeting with Hadril when he would have stayed at the base of the olive tree, staring hopelessly into the distance.  She practically walked him to his small dining area, pressed him into a stone chair, and shoved a plate of food before him.

“Eat,” she said, folding her arms over her chest as though she would fight him if he did not.

Legolas blinked down at the food, and then up at her.  “What?”

“Eat,” she repeated.  “Have you touched food at all since the night of the feast?”

Legolas shrugged.  In truth, he could not remember—nor could he bring himself to care.  “I am not hungry.”

“Eat anyway,” she said.  “You need your strength, and if this investigation is as long as it promises to be, you will need it even more in the days to come.”

She was right, perhaps, but Legolas gazed at the food as though it were an army of Uruk-hai.  “I cannot,” he said.

Her glare darkened.  “Try.”

The ever-more-tangled knot of dread twisted tighter in his stomach.  It had left no space for food, and the plate seemed to grow larger before his eyes.  He swallowed hard, and wondered if this was how Gimli had felt, days before.  Still, under her watchful eyes, he forced himself to pinch the corner off a piece of bread and bring it to his mouth—

But he stopped again, his stomach seizing abruptly up in a cramp that brought tears to his eyes and a rush of saliva to his mouth.  He put the bread back down, and the nausea faded slowly away, though the shakiness from the spasm remained.

“I cannot,” he said again, his voice unsteady, and he pushed the plate away as though it radiated heat, his stomach easing the farther away it slid.  “But I thank you for caring for me.”

“Someone must,” she said, “since it seems you will not do it yourself.”  But he heard the anger in her voice for the concern it was, and he was grateful for it, with as much of himself as could manage gratitude.  “I worry for you, Legolas.  You will make yourself ill if you keep on in this manner.”

“And yet I will be so much worse than ill if we find nothing,” he reminded her.  “I am sorry, Eleniel, for I do not mean to make light of your cares.  But I cannot bear to mind my own needs when so much else must be attended.  I will rest and eat, I promise, when all this has been managed.  But until then...”

She sighed.  “I know,” she said, “though I wish it were not so.  Still, I will keep one eye on you, even as you keep yours turned in every direction at once.  And should you need aught for yourself, you know you may always come to me.”

“I know,” he said softly.  “I have never doubted it.”

* * *

“I do not know what you plan to ask me, Legolas, but I think you know your answer already.”

Duvaineth sat across from him beneath the tree, glancing back and forth between him and Lis; the latter squirmed uncomfortably beside Legolas.  She had insisted on being the witness for this conversation, and now appeared to regret it.

“I do not suspect you.”  The words rolled off of Legolas’s tongue in a practiced cadence—the same ill-advised outburst with which he had begun each session, at the first look of betrayed eyes.  “But you were involved in the preparation of the food, and I must ask you if you noticed anything strange during the process—or if there were any time at which someone could have tampered with the food unobserved.”

She shrugged.  “It could have been done at any time, by anyone.  We often left what we made unattended, for,” her eyes narrowed even as her brows rose, “we tend to trust people here, as you know.”

“I know,” he said helplessly.

“I think we are looking at this the wrong way,” said Lis – to Legolas, rather than to Duvaineth, but as though she too regretted the suspicion directed at her friend.  “My lord was the only one affected, so the dishes of food could not have been poisoned.  Whatever poison it was must have been slipped into his food and his food alone.”

“How could that have been done?” Legolas asked—asked them both, asked himself, asked the world at large.

Duvaineth’s look of vexation faded into sympathy.  “I do not know,” she said.

* * *

"Eleniel, this is getting us nowhere.”

“I know, my friend.  But we must keep trying.”

* * *

Aragorn and Arwen left the next day, once Gimli had added broth to his daily diet of water and herbal tea.  Legolas hated to see them go—though in truth they had done little after that first night, still he felt as though one barrier between himself and the anger of Gimli’s remaining guards had gone, and that now he must face them on his own for flaying, however battered and bruised he already felt.  But he knew it was time.

“I cannot justify remaining away from my own realm and my own people for so long,” Aragorn said in apology, though Legolas had made no plea or accusation.  “Now that it is clear Gimli will recover and that you have taken things in hand, well—” He gave a half-smile that even he surely knew looked falsely encouraging.  “As we said days ago, it is your settlement now, politically connected to Gondor but internally independent, and I have faith in your ability to find out what has transpired.”

“Then there is one of us who does,” said Legolas.  But Aragorn did not deserve his bad mood.  “But I thank you for all you have done already.”

“You need not thank us for any of it,” put in Arwen.  “And you know you may call on us at any time.  Even if my husband is busy, I will do my best to come to you.”

“Thank you,” he whispered, but he knew that he would not.

Aragorn and Arwen took it in turns to bid Gimli farewell, accepting his thanks as well and clasping his hands.  “Recover well,” Aragorn told him.

“And take care of Legolas,” Arwen chimed in.  Legolas thought perhaps she was teasing him, but her voice was serious.

“I will do my best,” he said, his voice fond but not without exasperation.  “If he did not make it so difficult.”

“We know it well,” said Arwen, even as Aragorn clapped Legolas on the shoulder and then drew him into a quick embrace.  Legolas had to do his best not to cling to each of them in turn, though he desperately wished they would not leave him alone.  But when he made to escort them back to their horses, Aragorn waved a hand at him.

“We have been here many times, and we will surely see you again soon,” he said.  “Stay with your husband now, and send us word when all is resolved.”

“If all is resolved,” murmured Legolas, but Arwen shook her head.

“When,” she insisted.  “Farewell, Legolas.  We will visit again before too long.”

And with thanks and well-wishes, they were on their way.

Legolas looked down at where Gimli lay, remembering Aragorn’s words that he ought to stay with his husband now, and yearning for it with every drop of blood in his body.  Yearning to crumple onto the bed beside Gimli and hold him, sing to him, feed him, and comfort him—and perhaps to let Gimli comfort him, as well.

But Vinar’s words rang in his mind again, as they had done so often: _the true bane of the folk of Durin_ , and he forced himself upright again, forced the walls around the momentary softness of his heart.

“I must return to my interviews,” he said.

Gimli caught his hand before he could turn, reaching up from his bed with a speed in his arm that Legolas had not seen from him in days.  “Will you come back here after?”

Legolas could not let himself soften, or he would not be able to do what must be done—but neither could he leave without bending to kiss Gimli’s forehead.  “I will.”

* * *

“Please know before I begin that I do not mean to accuse you; I ask not if you did anything but only if you saw anything strange, if you have any ideas that you might be able to report” –

“Legolas, you need not be so careful with your words.”  It was always best when he spoke with those closest to him, those who had been with him since the beginning of this endeavor.  They were the ones who understood his deep-rooted terror at the thought of such a betrayal, who understood that he asked and did not accuse.  “I will not draw arrow merely for a few questions.”

“I am sorry to assume, and I am grateful for your cooperation.  It is merely that I must ask, and not all are so willing” –

“I can imagine.  But you may be easy—I will answer whatever you ask of me.”

It should have been a relief, but he was too numb to feel anything anymore but dread.

* * *

“Legolas,” Gimli said at last, once he had paced the distance around their room enough that it was a wonder he had not worn marks in the floor.  “That is enough.  Come to bed.”

Legolas came, but reluctantly.  It was strange—for all that he knew Gimli would bring him great comfort if he could only allow it, for all his own worry about his husband had eclipsed everything else days ago—he found himself unwilling to unclench enough to accept the relief, to loosen the tight knot deep in his belly.  He perched uneasily on the edge of the bed, not even reaching out to touch Gimli for fear of starting that process, for fear of the warmth and intense vulnerability of contact.

“I am sorry,” he said helplessly.  “I cannot rest with you this night.”

“You have apologized more in these last few days than I have heard in years,” said Gimli softly.  “Can you not relax, my love?”

“No.”  The honest word slipped from Legolas’s lips amidst a new wash of shame.  “If I relax, I will crumble.  I am sorry—I mean, not sorry—” He stumbled into embarrassed silence.

“Hush,” Gimli said gently.  “I will not ask it of you now, if you cannot.  But I will be here, whenever you can return to yourself and to me.”

“Thank you,” whispered Legolas.  He curled forward and hugged himself tighter, though he knew that Gimli’s arms were in reach.  “I know not when, but I promise I will.”

* * *

“Still nothing?”

He shook his head miserably.  “Still nothing.”

The dwarves almost seemed to grow more sympathetic rather than less, every day he returned to them and told them that still he had made no progress.  But their sympathy for him did not engender any more patience.

“We are more than willing to take over the investigation—”

“At any time you ask, Lord Legolas.”  Northin’s voice cut smoothly over Vinar’s, showing the proper deference, but the relish in the face of the former made Legolas want to cringe at the very thought.  His people were as cooperative as they could be when he spoke to them, particularly after ten years of living together in such a small, closely-woven community—but even still they bristled at the very hint of suspicion.  To have them meet with angry accusation in the face of a dwarf—?

“No,” Legolas said, straightening his spine and ignoring the rush of blood to his head.  “No, I will continue.  I will find something.  I promise.”


	7. Chapter 7

Legolas knew no longer how many elves he had questioned; it could have been the first or the fiftieth time that he sat at the base of the olive tree with a concerned-looking or a glowering dwarf (he despised himself for it, but their faces had begun to blend together for him, their moods become interchangeable however different they must have been), asking unhelpful circular questions and receiving equally unhelpful answers.  By this point it was only the heaviness of his heart that reminded him that he was days into this investigation; time had run together until he knew no longer how many days had passed, and still he felt he was no closer to an answer than at the beginning.

And yet, what should he do but go on?

“Lord Legolas!”

The cry of his name was so unexpected, and his own thoughts so hazed over, that he knew not at first how to react—it took him longer than usual for the sense of the words to penetrate his mind.  He was Lord Legolas, yes—ah, he was being called.  Gimli?  Had something gone ill with—

“Lord Legolas!”  It was Lim, one of those who had never dropped his title, dashing at last into view.  “You are summoned.  Lord Gimli’s second has arrived.”

 _Alma_.  The thought sent a jolt of energy through Legolas, and he felt himself straighten up without meaning to—felt himself almost smile, for the first time in what must have been days.  He did not expect her to solve his problem, of course, but—but it would be a breath of fresh air to see her.

None of his companions minded when he called an early end to the interview; nothing had been accomplished anyway, and they all knew nothing would be.  And surely Svi, who had been observing, was also glad of Alma’s arrival.

When Legolas emerged to the greeting clearing where the dwarves’ horses had been taken in hand, pulling as many scraps of his dignity about himself as he could, he hardly heard her cry of “Legolas!” before he was engulfed in her arms.

It was in her that Legolas found he could most clearly observe the rate of dwarves’ growth, for Alma was yet young enough that every year made a difference.  Since he had come to know her over a decade prior, she had already grown older and wiser than he had ever seen in such a short time.  And yet, still she was young enough – or perhaps merely carefree enough—to greet him with her usual enthusiastic embrace.

“Ah, Alma,” he murmured, through what might have almost been a laugh.  “Whatever the circumstances, it is always good to see you.”

“I am glad to see you as well.”  She pulled away and studied him.  “But I should be gladder to see you _well_.”  Her face creased in a frown.  “You look terrible, Legolas.”

There was real concern in her voice, but the faintest note of laughter as well, and his rush of soul-deep relief at her presence and the affection in her tone nearly took him off his feet; he was glad of her steadying hands on his arms.  “Well,” he said.  “As perhaps you have learned, much is afoot here, and yet nothing has come out to aid our discovery of who or why.”

“I have heard something of it, but I would learn the story from your lips.”  One of her companions opened her mouth as though to speak up, but Alma waved her down.  “No, I’ll hear no words of suspicion or warning,” she said irritably.  “If any here do not trust Lord Legolas, you may as well be betraying our own lord.  I refuse to be responsible for the spreading of suspicion and distrust, not in an alliance so built on friendship.”  She kept a hand on Legolas’s arm and turned, tugging him in the direction of his home.  “Come, let us go visit my lord, and then I would sit with you and hear what all has transpired here.”

“Yes,” he said, feeling the momentary relief drain away, in an almost dizzying return to dread.  Alma might make this easier on him, but she could not change the truth of his failure or his frustration.  “Yes, let us go.  Gimli will be glad to see you.”

“Wait.”  One of the other dwarves broke away from the group, all of whom were unloading bags from their ponies and chattering with their kin here in swift Khuzdul.  Legolas vaguely recognized her; she was one of the top healers in Aglarond; Naina, he thought.  “Take me with you, if you would.  I know little of what has happened beyond that my lord has been poisoned, and I would hear from you what you know and examine him myself.”

“I know no more than you do, though it pains me to be honest,” Legolas said heavily.  “I can only hope that your examination will expose something that will guide us in our hunt.”

Alma led the way back to Legolas’s home, practically tugging him along; Naina matched her pace, looking ahead, businesslike.  Legolas ought to have shown them in, perhaps, but he did not feel quite present, his mind drifting in several directions at once, his stomach sinking too low in his body.

Frai was on guard at Gimli’s bedside; she started when they entered, but relaxed quickly when she saw who it was.  Indeed, relief bloomed over her face when her eyes fell on Alma.  Gimli too lit up at the sight, and Legolas experienced another brief loosening of tension at the gladness in his face and the color in his cheeks, no longer drained from the effort of sitting up.

Gimli waved Frai away with little fanfare.  “Guard the outside if you must, but surely you cannot think Alma and Legolas a threat to my safety,” he grumbled, hardly waiting before the door had closed behind Frai to add, “Mahal save me from overprotective guards.  Welcome, Alma—I suppose you were glad of the opportunity to come to Ithilien’s anniversary celebration after all.”

She glared at him, not even looking away to speak to Legolas.  “Has he been like this since the beginning?”

“If you mean making light of the gravity of the situation,” Legolas said heavily, “yes, he has.”

“I would expect nothing less,” said Alma, but her glower softened into a smile.  “Well, my lord, I have seen you looking better.”

“Had you seen me a week ago, you would be glad of how well I look.”  Gimli reached out for Legolas’s hand, and Legolas obliged.  He understood, of course, whence such humor came—indeed, had said such things of himself before, but still it felt different this time, knowing that he had come so close to losing Gimli in truth.  But the pressure of Gimli’s hand in his, at least, was warm and steady, and he recognized it as the kindness it was.

“If that is the case,” said Naina, her eyebrows rising, “then I ought to examine you now and waste no more time.”  She waved at Legolas and Alma without turning to look at them.  “You have had your greetings; go now and speak as you will.  I would have space as I perform my examination.”

“And so you would have my husband abandon me,” sighed Gimli.  “Very well, Naina; I submit to your will.”  He squeezed Legolas’s hand, then released it.  “Alma, do not let him fret overmuch.  Perhaps you will be a better balm to his worry than I.”

She laughed, but looked at Legolas with real concern.  “Indeed,” she said, “I will endeavor to do so—though it may be a task beyond my ability.”

* * *

“Tell me, then,” Alma said.  They sat together now at the base of the olive tree—Vinar had drifted after them as though to follow, but let himself be waved away as Frai had done.  Legolas was glad, at least, that Alma still seemed to trust him.  “It is plain to be seen that all here are suffering from this deed.  I fear the story I have heard is not complete—do you know what was in the missive sent to me?”  Legolas shook his head, swallowing down the shame at the thought of his own failed attempts to send a message, and she snorted.  “Well, I hardly know myself—mostly what I could read in the paper was frothing rage, and the command to come here immediately, for my lord’s sake, and to bring guards and healers with me.  I know only that Gimli was poisoned on the evening of the anniversary, and that the king Elessar saved his life.”

“Indeed, that is all I know as well,” said Legolas heavily.  “Perhaps you may bring some light into the situation, Alma, where I confess I see only shadows.  Gimli was terribly ill on the evening of the feast—” he would say no more of the matter than that— “and the king said that it could only have been poison.  Of course there was a great outcry from Gimli’s companions, and rightfully so—and just as rightful is their impatience now, with my slowness and lack of insight.”  He resisted the urge to yank on his own hair.  “Who could it have been but one of my people?”

He did not pause for her to answer; the words were flowing out of him the way he had not allowed them to do since the first day, finally giving voice to a despair and a reluctance that shamed him—and yet that he could not deny.  “And yet—it horrifies me to say this, but I can believe it of none of them.  Perhaps it is merely my own desire to believe that all is well here, but the more I question them, the less clarity I seem to find, until all is dark and blurred outlines that reveal no shape even when I probe at them.”  Indeed, even as he spoke, his vision seemed to fade out, until all he could see physically were the silhouettes that menaced his mind.

Alma did not speak for a moment; then she reached across the space between them to lay a hand over one of his own.  “I am sorry, Legolas,” she said.  “It is plain to me that you have been stretched nearly to your breaking point.”

To his horror, Legolas realized he was near tears—how was it that people always insisted on being kind to him just when kindness was what it would take to crumble him?  Using all the strength he still possessed, he clenched his jaw until it ached and swallowed them down.  His vision darkened and blurred again as he did so, as though the effort had stolen his senses.  “Thank you,” he said, “but you ought not spend your energy on pity.  I would rather hear if what you have heard has drawn your attention to any thoughts that may have escaped me.”

“Patience,” she laughed, though her voice lacked in any real mirth.  “I have only just arrived and already you ask me for more than I can give!  I do not know, Legolas.  I apprenticed to Gimli as an architect, not as a leader; this is more of a test of my abilities than I ever expected so soon.  I should like to help you, but I know not even where to begin.”

She looked down at her hands, and Legolas instantly regretted asking so much of her.  Grown she had, perhaps, but she was young yet, and he ought not burden her with his own failings.  “I am sorry, Alma,” he said.  “None of this was your doing, and I do not ask you to take responsibility for it now.”  A breeze rippled through the branches above them, and he saw her shiver, though he hardly even felt the stirring of his hair.  “Let us find you a place to rest from your journey, and perhaps something to eat—if you feel you may trust us to feed you, of course,” he rushed on before she could speak to that, “and then you may speak to your people and mine, as you will, and we will see if you may find anything I have missed?”

“Of course I trust you!” she protested, folding her arms across her chest.  “Whatever you may believe, I do not think this happening makes you irredeemable.  I will do what I may for your investigation, and perhaps something will come clear to me.  It may be that all you needed was another pair of eyes—and though I am no elf, I flatter myself that mine are sharp enough.”

“Of course,” he said.  “I have full faith in you.  But first, let me offer you somewhere to rest, and perhaps something to eat.”

He made to rise, and across from him, she did the same.  She seemed to have rather more success than he; to his surprise, when he attempted to stand, his legs went weak and watery beneath him, and he had to steady himself on the edge of the table.

“...golas?” he heard, and realized that his hearing had faded momentarily into a high-pitched whine.  Alma was looking at him in concern, her heavy eyebrows drawn together, one hand outstretched though not quite touching him.  “Are you all right?”

“I am fine,” he said, though his own voice disappeared in the noise and his legs shook beneath him.  “Give me—a moment—” He reached a hand for her shoulder, his vision blurring again before he could feel it make contact.  This time, instead of stabilizing, everything around him went dark, and he reached into an endless tunnel with nothing waiting for him on the other side.

* * *

“...to have known this would happen,” a voice grumbled.  Gimli, of course—Legolas would know that voice anywhere.  Only—he did not understand why he heard it now.  Or why—he was lying down, he realized, on his own soft bed, and he could feel the warmth of Gimli by his side.  But had he not just been in the forest with Alma?

He blinked his eyes open—when had he closed them?—and stared in confusion at the thatched roof of his home.

“He wakes!”  The voice was Alma’s, and before he could sit up, her face came into view, hovering only a hand’s length above his face.  “Can you hear me?”

“Yes.”  His voice was drier than he had expected; he swallowed and pushed himself up against the pillows, alarmed at how the motion made his head spin.  “What...?”

“What happened?” snorted Gimli beside him.  Legolas turned to look, and his husband reached out to cup his face gently in one broad hand.  “Tell us, if you would, what you think happened?”

“I—" He thought back, shoving fiercely at the fog that threatened to cloud his thoughts.  “I was speaking to Alma—I was to be hosting you!”  He made to sit up, and was immediately shoved back down by no fewer than three hands.  “I had thought to find you lodging and food, that you might rest and eat—"

“Two things which you ought better to do yourself, Lord Legolas,” said Naina sternly from beside Alma, where he had not even noticed her.  His thoughts swirled, and he squeezed his eyes shut to keep dizziness from overcoming him.  “Do you remember anything after that?”

“I... no.  Only—" Only waking up here.  The awful truth was descending on him now.  “No.  Do not say I—I did not—”

“You did.”  Gimli’s voice was filled with grim humor, and yet gentle for all that.  He rolled his own head to the side to rest his forehead against Legolas’s, and Legolas supposed that it could have been worse – at least he had woken up here.  “Directly into Alma’s arms—it is lucky for both of us that she was able to catch you and carry you here.”

“And lucky for me,” said Alma.  “You are heavier than you look—not _heavy_!” she added hastily.  “But not as light as I was expecting.”

“Think you I am not made of flesh and bone?”  Legolas’s cheeks burned; he turned his face against Gimli’s so they would not see—or so that he would not have to see them seeing.  A shameful display he had put on thus far, as lord of Ithilien—to swoon into the arms of a visitor!  “Still, I am sorry if I caused you any distress.”

“If!” exclaimed Alma, sounding almost offended.  “You frightened me half out of my wits!  I thought at first that you had met some terrible fate of your own—I was relieved that you breathed yet, but I could not be sure for how long!  I brought you back here with all the haste I could manage, and I was near certain that you too suffered from some form of slow-acting poison—"

“That could not be so,” Legolas said.  “I—" He clamped his mouth shut.

“Have not eaten in a week,” Gimli finished for him.  “Of which I have already informed Naina, but I am glad to know that you would not have kept it from us.”

“You could not know that,” protested Legolas.  “You have slept much these last days; I could well have eaten while you rested.”

Gimli raised an eyebrow.  “Did you?”

Legolas turned his face into the pillow beneath him and did not answer.

“I am glad you do not find my weakened state an excuse to lie to me,” said Gimli, but his voice was not as stern as his words.  “And you have not slept; that too I do not need to ask.”

Legolas shook his head.  The pillow felt softer than usual, somehow, and it smelled of Gimli and faintly of soap.  Inside, that same dread that had held him for so long was tugging at him once more, but he found that he lacked the strength to indulge it.

“A week?” exclaimed Naina, but Gimli’s hand trapped the back of Legolas’s head when he would have turned to look up.  “I know elves are different, but surely—”

“It is not as necessary for them as for us,” said Gimli, “but lack of rest takes a toll, particularly when paired with worry.  He might have managed it longer—though I daresay not much longer – had he not been so preoccupied with—matters here.”

“The _treachery afoot in Ithilien_ ,” mumbled Legolas, letting bitterness overtake him at last, giving little care to Naina’s presence here.  “As so many of your folk have come to call it.  As indeed it can only be.”

“Speak not of this now!” came Alma’s voice, and it was in her haste—and indeed in her concern—that her youth shone most strongly through.  “You must rest and recover as well, Legolas, and I will be your eyes and ears until you are better, if you wish.”

“He will not need long, I judge,” said Naina.  “A good long sleep and a meal will do much to cure his ills—"

“And the rest will not be cured until these troubles are ended,” Legolas interrupted her.  “It will not be long, Alma.  But I suppose for now I must bow to the wishes of my newly-made nursemaids.”  Truth be told, it was more of a relief than he liked to admit: for all that his stomach still twisted with the urge to rise, to move, to solve this problem as soon as he might, so that none would suffer from it again—there was something strangely freeing about being forced to rest.

“Indeed you must,” said Gimli.  “If I may be ordered to sleep and eat, so may you.  Perhaps we may even share a meal after you have rested.”

Even the thought of food was enough to bring on a faint wave of nausea, but Legolas said nothing of it—that they might speak of later.  For now, the thought of sleeping once more beside his husband was so intoxicating that he felt his eyes slipping closed already.  And it was strange, for he should not have, not with all the worry and grief, not with the threat that still existed somewhere within, but he felt safe enough—or perhaps merely exhausted enough—to slip into true sleep.

“Perhaps,” he said aloud in response to Gimli.  “And you do not mind, Alma?  Surely Eleniel might guide you to lodgings for yourself, if one of your companions is not already waiting to do so.”

“Do not be foolish,” said Alma.  “I will wait here and stand the guard over you both.  I am no experienced guard, to be sure, but I can defend you well enough if I must—should it be that whoever our would-be assassin is, he has waited to act until you too were not on the alert.”

He could not honestly tell if she was serious, but those words were enough to force Legolas’s eyes open wide again, his weary body jerked unpleasantly back to wakefulness.  “Might that be so?” he asked, making to sit up.  “Do you think—"

Gimli’s arm appeared suddenly in his way and blocked his motion—which was well enough, as Legolas found he no longer had the strength to hold himself up; he fell exhausted back onto the pillows.  “If our culprit had wished to strike again, he would not have waited until Alma and the others arrived,” he said.  “Now the eyes and ears surrounding me are more than before—and though I do not like to remind you, it seems your own have been clouded for some days now, Legolas.”

“Think you I would not have noticed?” he protested.  “My distraction now comes from days of over-vigilance.  Had anyone threatened you again—”

 _I would have known it_ , he wished to say, but found he could not.  For had he not failed to notice the first time, after all?  Perhaps it was true—he had been distracted, or his senses had failed him before as they were still doing now—

Gimli laughed.  “Go to sleep, Legolas,” he said, affectionate humor in his voice.  “Take the rest you have denied yourself, and look at the world with fresh eyes when you wake.”

“Very well,” Legolas murmured, and he was as surprised as any other when his eyes slid shut and he sank nearly immediately into sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

When Legolas opened his eyes, he did not know at first where he was.

It was one of his least favorite parts of sleeping as mortals did: though his control over his own reverie had significantly lessened since he had heard the gulls, at least he retained some sense of his surroundings, some layer of connection with the world outside.  And if he could not control what he dreamed, he could at least control how he dreamed it.  Giving in to true sleep, though, was a kind of surrender: a relinquishing of his hold on his mind to wherever his dreams might take him—and still he did it so rarely that that instant of waking, of remembering and realizing where he lay, seemed to stretch far longer than it ought.  He did not understand how mortals did this so often, though Gimli had seemed puzzled when Legolas had asked how he could stand the disorientation.

It was in that prolonged instant of waking that Legolas remembered: why he had surrendered to sleep, and why he had done it in the middle of the day.  And it was in that remembering that he was able to appreciate how deeply he had slept, how much he had forgotten.

Had he chosen only reverie, he thought, his tenuous grip on his own mind would have tormented him with anguished dreams that promised only a long extension to this agonizing process, another threat to Gimli’s life.  Perhaps it was for the best that he had relinquished control—for he did not think he had dreamed at all, or if he had, he could not recall it.

“Good morning,” came Gimli’s amused voice from by his side, and Legolas realized that he was being teased just in time to stop himself from answering that no, it must be nearly sunset.

“Good—yes,” he said, knowing his confusion would only open him up to further teasing.  He worked a finger around the edges of his eyes, clearing away the odd crust of sleep that accumulated there only rarely, and turned to the side to meet Gimli’s smiling gaze.  “I did not sleep too long, did I?  It has only been hours, not days?”

“My poor confused husband,” Gimli said, brushing a playful finger down Legolas’s nose.  “No, you did not sleep for a full day—though I would have let you if you had; you needed the rest.  How do you feel now?”

“Rested,” Legolas said, and it was true—the depth of his slumber had so dazed him that even the worry and shame of the last days felt separate from him, off in a corner of his mind that he could not yet access.  For that, even if for nothing else, he could be glad of the rest.  “And you?  Did you sleep?”

“I did, not long after you fell asleep.”  Gimli looked rested as well; not in the full of health, but as though he had been wakeful for some time, but not long enough to grow weary again.  “I do not know how you can lie awake for such long hours at my side.  Do you not grow frightfully bored?”

“I find your every movement fascinating.”  It was an answer he would have brushed off if Gimli had spoken it to him, but it was true; Legolas could never grow weary of lying beside Gimli and observing every inch of his skin, every motion of his eyes behind his eyelids.  He could compose songs about the curve of Gimli’s nose or the fall of his eyelashes against his cheeks, could spend hours trying to guess what the dwarf might be dreaming.  “But I am glad you rested as well.  Do you feel any better?”

“With every hour.”  Gimli had left his fingers against Legolas’s face, tracing along his cheekbones and jawline.  It seemed the first time in days that the touch was comforting as it was meant to be, rather than barely discernible to numb skin, or too much stimulation to be borne.  “I have waited on you so we might dine together.  Will you?”

“I—" Still the dread and anxiety had yet to fully return, but Legolas could feel it looming once more; he looked around.  “Alma—I was to speak with her?”

He made to sit up, but Gimli’s hand moved to press against his chest, and Legolas did not fight when Gimli pushed him back down.  “She will wait,” he said.  “She told me that you were not to seek her out until you had woken on your own and eaten.”

“Eaten?”  Legolas had heard perfectly well, of course, but his stomach twisted at the thought.

“If I must, so must you,” said Gimli gently.  “Naina has prepared something for both of us, which she promises will not worsen any existing illness.  If I were to guess, I would say it is to be more broth—healers do not tend to be creative cooks.  Can you manage that?”

If nothing else, it was Gimli’s coaxing that made him give in—he would not have his husband waste his energy convincing Legolas to take care of himself.  “I will,” he promised, steeling himself in preparation.

Gimli rang the tiny bell beside the bed, and it was only seconds before Naina and Alma entered, as though they had been waiting without, each carrying a tray laden with a mug of tea and a bowl of the broth Gimli had predicted.

“I am glad to see you awake again!” Alma said, rushing around Naina to be the first at Legolas’s side; Gimli snorted affectionately.  “Now I have been told I am to watch you closely to make sure that you eat—by my lord and by Naina, both of whom outrank me.”  She winked at him.

“And both of whom are here as well,” Naina reminded her, watching closely as Gimli pushed himself into a sitting position.  Legolas sat up as well, with considerably less effort (and he was glad of that, that his strength had not all left him for no good reason), although the motion made his head spin.  “Lest you fear to eat food that was not prepared by someone you trust, I made this myself using supplies we brought with us.”

Those words did little to restore Legolas’s appetite; he looked down at the bowl of broth in dismay.  “It is not that—”

Gimli sighed.  “Why would you say that now, Naina?” he said.  “Can you not see he is taking himself apart?”  He rested a hand gently on Legolas’s shoulder.  “No one here blames you, my love,” he murmured.  “But we care about you, and we do not wish to see you so distressed.”

“ _You_ do not wish to see _me_ —”

“I do not,” Gimli interrupted him.  “And I do not mean to guilt you, but even less do I wish to see you suffer.  So I ask, as you have asked me so often: if not for yourself, for _me_ , will you eat?”

Legolas swallowed hard and looked down at the bowl of broth before him.  “I will match you, if I must,” he said, forcing bravery into his tone.

Gimli laughed.  “If it must be so, then I will gladly compete.”

The broth was easier to eat than anything else he had tried, and despite the shame of being observed, he managed a first small bite, and then another.  His appetite returned as he ate, to his own surprise—once the first barrier had been broken, he found that the twisting in his stomach turned into a cry for more.

He drained the bowl only moments after he had first begun to eat, and looked around in surprise.  “Alma,” he said tentatively, “Naina—would you happen to have any more?”

“Yes, there is plenty!” said Alma eagerly.  “Or—if you would like something more substantial, we have brought bread and dried meat—oh, no, you would not want that—but there are other things, and perhaps your people have something—”

Gimli’s eyes lit up at the words and he opened his mouth, but Naina swooped in before he could speak.  “Not for you, my lord,” she said.  “Unfortunately, you must continue with broth until we can be sure you will be able to eat solid food.”  Legolas glanced over and it was true that Gimli had eaten only half his broth.

“Alas,” sighed Gimli.  “It seems you have won this contest, my love.”

“I would rather you had,” said Legolas earnestly.  “But I would gladly take some bread, if you have it on hand.”

Naina nodded and went out to find the food, leaving Alma to sit on the chair beside the bed and watch them both.  “Why have you not eaten in so long, Legolas?” she asked.  “Did you fear poisoning as well?”

Legolas shook his head, ashamed.  “No, I—"

“It is one of his particularities,” interrupted Gimli, squeezing his hand.  “He does not eat when under stress or suspicion—whatever the toll it may take on him.”

Alma nodded, but her thoughts seemed to be drifting.  “Still, it is odd, do you not think?” she said.  “That Lord Gimli might be the only one affected by something so imprecise as poison?  It would have had to be slipped directly into his food, and that somehow done subtly.”

“Yes, we have thought about that,” said Legolas, “but we can find no answer.  We even have some ways of detecting poisons, though they are imperfect, and Celair could find none in the leavings when ze tried.  It must all have been very carefully done and very carefully removed.”  His appetite was fleeing as he spoke, and he fixed his gaze on the bedcovers.

“Ways of detecting poisons?”  Naina had reentered the room with bread and more broth on Legolas’s tray.  “Tell me of them, if you would, Lord Legolas.  Is this some sort of elf magic?”

“Not magic, not exactly,” Legolas demurred, but he could not think exactly what to name it.  “We can hear the songs of all that lives and grows, and that means we can hear when a note of that music is discordant with our own spirits—when something means harm to us.  I say it is imperfect because little in nature is poisonous to us.  Before now, I had only ever done it—and seen it done—to find the location of the spiders that bred in my home forest.”

“So you think that the poison used could be something that is not fatal to elves?” asked Naina.  “And thus it was hidden from your sight?”  She looked pensive.  “That would be a useful skill indeed, if only it could detect also that which is fatal to mortals.”

“We did not think—or, perhaps we did—" Legolas stopped, confused.  _Had_ he even thought?  Had he allowed himself any time for logic, amidst his gloom and despair?  Had he simply failed to realize that there might well be poison within that could be found, if only one were familiar enough with a mortal’s spirit?

And was not Gimli’s spirit more known to him than any other?

He sprang from the bed without any warning to the others; Naina lurched backwards to keep him from upending her tray.  His ears roared and his head whirled, and he staggered, bracing himself on a wall, but he ignored Alma’s reaching hands and Gimli’s reproving words.  How had he not realized—?

“What foolishness is this?” said Naina sharply.  “You are in no shape to be running about!”

“Celair,” he said.  His head was clearing slowly, and he thought he might venture another step.  “I must speak with Celair.”

“About what?”  Gimli seemed about to rise himself, so Legolas forced himself to calm, though his heart thundered in his ears.  But he could not form the words to explain, for the idea hardly made sense in his own mind, and finally he only shrugged.

“Well, I will find hir, if I must,” said Alma anxiously.  “But lie back down, please!  I do not want to have to carry you again!”

Reluctantly, Legolas let himself be guided back down onto the bed.  He was no longer tired—indeed, he felt filled with a strange frantic invigoration—but he could no longer deny that he was weak from lack of food and rest.  “Ze should not be far,” he said instead.  “Ze and Eleniel will likely be at the meeting-place where I spoke to you, and if ze is not there, someone will surely be able to direct you to hir.  But I have an idea, and I need hir.”

Alma had bobbed up and down on her toes as he spoke; she nodded vigorously as soon as he finished.  “I will find hir,” she vowed, and took off.

“In the meantime, Lord Legolas, you ought to eat,” said Naina, with a pointed look down at the tray she carried.  “If you are to be off chasing hunches so swiftly again, you will need your strength.  But if I may ask, what is this idea which has struck you so suddenly?”

“I will tell you when Alma has returned,” Legolas promised.  In truth, he was glad of the time, for he would need it in order to best find the words to explain what he thought he could do.  But he could not believe he had not realized it before – the way the poison could have slipped free of Celair’s attempts to detect it.

Naina did not seem fully satisfied, but once Legolas had settled back into the bed, she handed over the tray with a bowl of broth and a crust of bread.  Legolas’s appetite had returned along with his hope, and he ate both eagerly, energized with his new idea.  If this worked—well, it might not relieve his shame, and it might not heal Gimli’s ills, but it would bring him one step closer to finding the identity of the person who had come so close to stealing his love’s life.

And at least—at _least_!—he might not feel so helpless.

It did not take Alma long to return with Legolas’s seconds; doubtless at least one of them had been nearby.  They had, he knew, been waiting for just such a thing as this to happen, and had remained near him throughout the last week as though by their very presence they could prevent it.

Eleniel arched her eyebrow at him when she entered.  “So now you will eat,” she said.  “After and not before the consequences of not doing so have affected you.”

“Forgive me,” he said, though he knew she only jested.  “I did not intend for this to happen.”

“Of course you did not,” she said.  “No one blames you for any of this, Legolas; still, when you will not listen to us, it is enough to drive us to distraction.”

“Well, I would ask you to listen to me now,” he said earnestly, turning to look at Celair, who had come in quietly behind Eleniel.  “Celair, I did not even think when I asked you to seek the poison—but there is much that is poisonous to mortals and not to us.  You taught me that we seek malice in the song, that we listen for a note in discord with our own spirit.  But that note—there are many living things that exist peacefully with us, that bear us no ill will, but it is not so for mortals.  Could it be possible that you merely were not listening for the right note?”

“It could well be,” ze said.  “I have never been particularly close to mortals—present company accepted, of course, but only in recent years—" ze inclined hir head to Gimli—“and it is not inconceivable that I could have missed the note for which I had meant to listen.”  Ze looked straight at Legolas.  “But my lack of familiarity with mortals will not have been resolved in the last week.  It may be that this note can be heard—but only by the right person.  Do you think that could be so, Legolas?”

Legolas looked back at hir, knowing what ze asked, his belly fluttering with nerves—but his mind calm, steadier than it had been.  This was what he had intended – and how much worse could it become, after all?  Hope lent him a confidence he had not felt in a week, and he took a deep breath, steadying himself, preparing.

“I think it could,” he said.  “The leavings are yet stored in iceboxes, are they not?  I would have some of them brought to me.”

* * *

“So, you will... listen... to the food?”

Over the years, Legolas had often found Alma refreshing company.  Her willingness to accept and try to understand things that sounded unusual to her had set her apart from many new people Legolas had met, who found him and his ways irreconcilably strange.  But it seemed that he had at last surpassed even Alma’s capacity for belief.

“When you describe it thus, of course it sounds absurd,” protested Legolas.  “But I told you that we have the ability to listen for all the living things that come from the song we all share.  All the food we eat comes from that which was once alive – which has grown and lived alongside us for long months and years—and when we prepare it to eat, it is only another part of that song of living and growing and dying.  It nourishes us as we have done for it for so long.  Though it no longer lives, still it bears traces of the song, like echoes of a long-held note, and it is my hope that I will be able to hear them.”

“What I find so difficult to believe,” said Gimli, his voice more amused than accusing, “is that I have only just learned that this is a skill you possess—or rather, that this skill can have uses beyond mere music for its own sake.”

Legolas shrugged.  “It has become less useful over time,” he said.  They had used it to a lesser extent in their healing of Ithilien, but that had always been as a group, never alone.  “As I said before, little that grows naturally bears us ill will, so I have rarely needed to use it to detect malice—and the use that I intend now requires a concentration from me that I did not have when this first began.  Celair has always had more skill in it than I.  But ze is not as close to mortals as I have come to be, and it is my hope that with you beside me I might come to discover something that has hitherto evaded me.”

“So you think that because ze was not looking for mortal poison, the identity of the poison might have evaded hir?”

“I hope,” said Legolas simply.

Eleniel returned before long, Celair trailing her, each carrying a frosted-over bowl holding remnants of the food from the feast.  The scent was lessened after freezing, but still Gimli blanched when it reached his nose, and closed his eyes, turning his face away.

“I am sorry,” Legolas whispered.  He had not thought—but he saw no other way to do this.  “I would not bring you distress, if I saw any other way.”

“I know.”  Gimli twitched his fingers, and Legolas took his hand, stroking the back gently in the hopes of comforting him.  “Do what you must.”

“I will be as quick as I can,” Legolas promised him, and then he closed his own eyes.

He had not been able to do this before, not with his mind and spirit a wreck, not with his body following so closely.  But rest and food and companionship had calmed him and steadied him; he had hope now, and the assurance that many of Gimli’s folk yet believed in him and in their friendship.  He took a deep breath, opened his mind, and _listened_.

He could hear it now, the way he had not days before: the song of creation spread out around him.  At first the tone was one of welcome – almost as though, individual and insignificant as he was, the song were greeting him, calling him back into its depths.

He allowed himself to bask for a time, allowed it to bolster and steady him, and then he returned to his task.  Instead of listening to the full song, with all its melodies and harmonies, he focused on what surrounded him directly.  He found the threads from each of his companions—Gimli’s, always, the strongest and richest note, the melody of his soul.

He kept that note in his mind and examined it closely; he could feel where it wavered, slightly weaker than usual, and then he looked deeper, picking out the fainter notes.  Once plants were severed from their roots, once animals were slain, they ceased to have a note of their own, but echoes were still audible, faint but there if he knew how to listen.  And now Legolas listened with all his might, picking apart the threads of echoed harmony, listening for— _there_.

It came not from the food—so the poison had been confined to Gimli’s dish, it seemed, the better to reach only its sole target—but from within Gimli himself.  One note that clashed, that reverberated against the rich tone of his spirit and sent up frenetic waves of falseness.  Weak, far weaker than him—it would never have claimed his life, Legolas knew now, but—but he knew what it was, how it sounded.

He narrowed the focus of his attention onto that one echo, attuning himself to its sound, and followed it back to its source.

Only—

He blinked, his focus shaken.  Only it had no source.

“Legolas?” came a voice from beside him.  Only a hint—barely even a whisper, as though fearful of breaking his concentration—but identifiable as Alma’s.

“Wait,” he said, and then he dove deeper.  Perhaps if he could have their help—

The note was easier to identify now, now that he had heard it before, and this time, he hummed it aloud, imprinting it in his mind before opening his eyes.  Darkness had crept in through the windows, and he had no sense of how long he had been lost in his listening, but they all sat around him still, watching – even Gimli, whose eyes had fallen halfway shut, his hand lax in Legolas’s grip.

He did not stop his humming, but gestured at Celair.  He did not need to explain; ze took up the note along with him, and as he had hoped, the sound of their voices together strengthened the note, holding it in his head.

“Do not stop singing,” he said softly, over the sound of Celair’s voice, “lest we forget the note.  This is the poison, as best I can determine, but I cannot seem to find whence it came.  Will you…”

Ze did not stop humming, but merely nodded and closed hir eyes.

Legolas matched his voice to hirs, and waited.

Eleniel reached out to take his free hand, the one that did not still hold Gimli’s, and he let her without a word.  He knew she yearned to help him now, but did not trust her voice to the task—it had never been the same since the battle at Mirkwood-that-was, and in moments such as this, when precision was so important, she could not risk disrupting their concentration.  Nevertheless, Legolas squeezed her fingers, grateful for her support, and watched Celair’s face.

Watched as gradually it crumpled in the same confusion Legolas felt.

“Are you sure that is the correct note?” ze asked Legolas, opening hir eyes.  “For I cannot find the source of it anywhere here.”

“Do you hear it at all?” Legolas asked, dropping his song, dismay threatening to weigh him down again.  “Could I be wholly mistaken?”

“I do,” ze said, “but so faintly as to be nearly unnoticeable.  And I can find no source to which to follow it.”

“I must be wrong then,” said Legolas, and he felt the fluttering of hope threaten to fall dead.  “And yet I had hoped—"

“Not so fast,” said Gimli, sounding stirred from his doze.  “Do not doubt yourself so quickly, my husband.  I may not understand how your elvish senses work, but I have trusted yours for ten years now and never been disappointed.”

“So how do the elvish senses work?” Naina asked—Legolas had nearly forgotten about her presence.  “For while I may not understand them enough to trust them, the lack of a physical source of a poison means nearly nothing.  It could have been brought here, or…” She fell silent, and they all looked at one another.

“Brought here,” said Eleniel at last, “but by whom?”

“Celair,” said Alma, leaning forward now in her excitement, “you may not be able to find the source of the plant, but can you find out what it is?  An image, or—I know not how you discern such things, but anything to lead us to the plant?  For if it is something that does not grow in Ithilien, then perhaps we may indeed find the identity of the would-be murderer if we can determine where they might have found this poison.”

Ze nodded along with Alma’s words.  “I understand, Madam Dwarf.  I shall do what I may—Legolas, will you—"

Ze did not need to complete the question.  Legolas hummed again, the note familiar in his mind now, and he tried to think if it was something he recognized, if he had ever heard this particular note in the song before.  It was so difficult to tell, sometimes, when the tone was separated from its former surroundings – for part of what gave each note its sound was the way it wove with the other sounds around it, the specific harmony it took up in the great song.  But if he—or Celair—had encountered this plant before, it could be that it had taken up a similar place, a discord that would not have been felt if not compared to a mortal, otherwise a harmless plant, but one with more potential for danger than they would have felt…

It was possible, at least, and he was glad now that Celair had taken on the task of seeking, for his own nerves had begun to buzz with tension, with the anxious feeling of being _so close_ and yet not close enough, and he knew he would not be able to collect his thoughts for another effort…

“Perhaps,” Celair said both suddenly and at last, opening hir eyes and snapping hir head up.  “I cannot be certain, but _perhaps_ I know the plant.  If you dwarves would tell me if this is a poison to you?  The plant has somewhat similar tones to one that grows near the outer boundaries of Eryn Lasgalen, where there is a bit more light and air than beneath the trees, and it is one we call _lughthond_ , or snakeroot.”

“Ah,” Legolas said.  He thought he knew of the plant in question—and perhaps it did sound familiar, though he had crossed the borders of the forest rarely enough to make him doubt.  “With the jagged leaves, and the white flower clusters, and the small berries that resemble eyes?”

“Yes, exactly.”

There was a gasp from Naina; Alma had her hands over her mouth.  “Does this plant,” said Naina softly, “does it happen to grow near the borders between Eryn Lasgalen and Dale, on the way to Erebor?”

Legolas nodded.

“I think that must be it.”  Naina gestured towards Gimli, seeming overcome.  “There is a plant we know of, that we warn our children to avoid.  It is perilous to all who eat it, and often fatal to children, though our adults will often recover, if treated properly.  It induces violent nausea, confusion of the mind, and sometimes hallucinations.”  She looked down at Gimli.  “My lord, what were your symptoms?”

Legolas could not speak.  Gimli too was silent, but Naina only glanced back and forth between them and nodded as though satisfied.

“We do not call it by the same name, but it must be the same plant,” said Alma.  “For I recall the orders you speak of, Naina; my parents told me upon first leaving the mountain of all the plants I was to avoid, and I remember them speaking of this one—only to us it is named baneberry.”

Legolas stiffened as though his spine had been locked into place; the first syllable rang in his ears.  _Bane._   “Baneberry, you said?” he managed.

Naina looked puzzled.  “Aye.  Does that bring something to mind?”

“Yes.”  His voice sounded strange in his ears again, hollow—his body went cold, and then slowly flushed with heat, beginning in the tips of his ears and traveling down through his face, neck, and into his belly until he felt he could breathe fire.  “Yes, it does.”

“Legolas?” said Gimli.

Legolas did not speak; he sprang from the bed again, ignoring the hands that made to push him down.  “I will kill him,” he hissed, reason washed away in the flood of rage, fresh strength surging through him on its tide.  “How could he—"

“ _Legolas_.”  Eleniel’s hands caught his arms, tugging him back; he broke away easily on the right, but her left hand still held him fast.  He might manage to break her grip; in tests of strength they had often traded the lead back and forth, but the effort it required slowed him down, enough at least to call him back to sense, and he let her pull him back to stand at her side.  “Legolas, slow down.”

“You will kill whom?”

Celair came to stand on his right, taking a firm hold of his other arm, but Legolas had no more intention to leave, at least for now.  Still, he knew not if he dared to speak.  “Let me go,” he said; when they hesitated, he said, “I will not go for him now; only let me loose.”

They traded reluctant looks, but loosened their grip, and Legolas paced quickly to the door, ignoring their motions behind him.  He leaned out, looked in all directions—if any of them were nearby, they were at least not in earshot.  Perhaps speaking among themselves—or perhaps they were plotting once more, for who knew how many of them had been involved in this?

“Go for whom?”  said Alma now behind him, her voice more insistent, but Legolas did not answer straight away.  He pulled the door firmly closed behind him first; went to the windows and drew all the curtains.  For the first time, he regretted that his home was so open to the world around.

Then he retreated to the bed, and sank down to sit on the side.  Behind him, Gimli groped for his hand, and Legolas took it nearly absentmindedly, hardly registering the gentle stroking of Gimli’s thumb at his wrist.

“Vinar,” he said.


	9. Chapter 9

The first reaction, as he supposed he had expected, was blank shock.

Then everyone spoke at once.

“ _Vinar_?” said Alma, while, “The dwarf?” asked Celair, and Eleniel said, “The guard?”  Naina said nothing, but her mouth had rounded and her eyes narrowed as though in suspicion.

Gimli’s hand had tightened around Legolas’s wrist, and had he not been so occupied with his own anger, Legolas would have worried about provoking Gimli’s.  But he merely waited until the reactions of shock had died away and Legolas had turned to face him, and then said simply, “Why?”

Now that he was calmer, somewhat, Legolas could appreciate that they had pulled him back.  Already common sense was creeping back in, reminding him how absurd his assumption had been—that one word could bring on him such a certainty!  And yet his memories flashed back over the last week—Vinar’s eagerness to leave, the looks of suspicion he had given Legolas—and then those words, those telling words: _the true bane of Durin’s folk—_ who would choose such words who had not thought of them before?

“You will think it is foolish,” he said.

“More foolish than we thought your attempts to storm out and apprehend him before explaining to us why you wished to do so?” said Eleniel dryly, and Legolas blushed and looked at his knees.  “You are surrounded by a room of people who trust your instincts, Legolas—but we can only do so if you tell us why.”

Gimli squeezed his hand, and Legolas looked back up, almost afraid of what he would see—but there was no blame in Gimli’s eyes.  “Tell us why, my love,” he said.  “It can do no more harm than the endless investigations of your elves—and if you are as certain as you seem, it could also do a deal more good.”

“Very well.”  Legolas took a breath, reached out for Gimli’s other hand, which Gimli gave him without question, and told them.

He told them of Vinar’s words on that first day, words which had repeated themselves in his head often enough to lend the thought weight, but which sounded small and insignificant when repeated for the ears of others.  The suspicious glances sounded even more so, so he omitted them from his explanation, stuttering almost into silence before remembering that Vinar had also been eager to leave before the investigation eve began, and then regaining a modicum of conviction as he reminded them that if the plant must truly have been brought from Erebor or Lasgalen, Vinar was among those who had most recently been there.

“I do not mean to accuse anyone baselessly,” he managed finally.  “Or to turn suspicious eyes away from myself; it is only—it seemed important.”  His face burned, and finally he lapsed into silence, his eyes on where his fingers had begun toying with Gimli’s, unable to hold still.

For a moment, no one spoke.  He could feel their eyes on the back of his neck, heavier and hotter than his hair; he twisted his head until it fell over one shoulder and exposed his neck to the air.

“Well,” Eleniel said after a long pause, “I do not think your accusations baseless.  I confess I do not like being on the receiving end of suspicion, so I may be biased in my desire to turn scrutiny away from myself.  But it seems to me that our efforts have turned up nothing so useful as this, and if this is all we have, we ought to pursue it.  It can do no harm, anyway, to question the dwarves as well.”

“I agree,” said Alma.  “I know _I_ should not be offended at least to be questioned, if I had nothing to hide.”

“And perhaps even the fact of the questioning will be enough to reveal something substantial,” said Celair.  “We might see who becomes offended, or appears nervous.”

Legolas took a deep breath—glad, at least, that he would not be rejected out of hand—and looked up, once more, at his husband.  The only one who had not spoken—and the one whose opinion mattered most.  “Gimli?” he asked.

Gimli nodded, though Legolas could not tell whether the displeasure in his face was at the thought of his guards having betrayed him or at the thought of Legolas daring to suggest such a thing.  “I agree,” he said.  “Spread the word tonight that all who accompanied me here will be questioned tomorrow.  And, Alma, if you would assign a guard over them tonight, to be sure that no one flees before we have the opportunity.”

“I will do it now,” she vowed, nodding vigorously and hopping up from her seat.  But she stopped halfway across the room.  “Unless—is that all?”

“That is all,” said Gimli.  “Naina, you too may go to your lodgings, and I would ask that you not speak of this talk to any other until tomorrow.”

She nodded, still seemingly speechless, and then bowed and took her own leave.

“And Eleniel and Celair, you may assist Alma if you wish, or speak to your own people, or whatever you would rather do,” said Gimli.  “But I would have my husband to myself just now, if you would do us the courtesy.”

They both looked almost imperceptibly to Legolas, and he nodded.  He did not know what Gimli would say, but it was right that they should speak, just the two of them.

It was quiet for a time after the other two left; Legolas looked down at their interlaced hands still, and dared not to look up.  It had grown dark; he had noticed it before, but it seemed more prominent now that there were no words to distract him.  Even the hot, pulsing anger had faded into uncertainty.

“Well,” Gimli said at last, “Come lie down.”

Still Legolas felt he could not read his expression, or the tone of his voice.  Usually Gimli’s moods were so clear to him, but every now and then when this fear and uncertainty seized him, he found his ability to read his husband dead and useless.

He lay down, though, arranging himself at Gimli’s side but not quite touching him.  Still, the silence between them felt huge and solid, as though something physical had interposed itself into the space where their bodies did not touch.  He rubbed at his fingers, then at his arms, though he was not quite cold.

When he could bear it no longer, he ventured, “Are you angry?”

“Angry?”  Gimli seemed truly surprised.  “Angry with what?”

“With me.”  Was he being toyed with?  “For accusing your subjects of causing you harm.”

“Even as mine have been accusing yours for days?”  Gimli stroked Legolas’s arm, letting his hand come to rest over Legolas’s; the warm weight of it stilled the twitching of his fingers.  “I am different with my subjects than you are with yours, Legolas; you know this.  It does not wound me the way it does you to think one of them might have plotted to betray me—though it does make me question the placement of my trust and the training given to my guards.  You ought not feel guilt for voicing your suspicions—at least, you ought to feel less guilt for this than you would, should you have kept quiet and let one you suspected an assassin roam free.”

“Oh.”  The absolution was so much more than he had been expecting, somehow, and Legolas’s thoughts flailed, lacking the anchor they had expected.  “I—suppose you are right.  I only—I wish—" Wished what?  He did not wish that it were one of his people, and nor did he wish it one of Gimli’s, not truly.  Wished it were over?  Wished it had never happened in the first place?”

“Oh, Legolas.”  Gimli’s voice was warm and gentle; the covers rustled as he shifted onto his side.  “Come here.”

Legolas rolled into his arms, tangling himself in the sheets and Gimli’s hold.  For the first time in days, it felt, his touch brought true comfort, and he tucked his head into Gimli’s neck, letting himself be held close and snug.  “You have been tearing yourself apart for days,” Gimli whispered.  “Let it end, my love.”

“But what if it is not the end?”  Legolas’s eyes were wet; he blinked hard.  “What if it was not Vinar, and we must go through all the horrible questioning again?”

“It matters not.”  Gimli’s fingers sifted through Legolas’s hair.  “We will question all my people and all yours if we must; if that turns up nothing we will call Aragorn to conduct his own investigation of his companions, and Faramir of his—indeed, I would be surprised if they have not both already begun.  We will find who it was, and we will make both Ithilien and Aglarond safe for both elves and dwarves again, I promise.  But you have done as much as you could and more than your share, my love.  Tomorrow will come when it comes, and we will meet whatever is in store for us.  But for now, for me at least, please let yourself rest.”

Legolas let out a wet, shaky breath, and nodded against Gimli’s neck.  After all the horror and dread of the last few days, the feeling of being held, and comforted, and reassured that all would be well – it felt like enough.  “Very well,” he whispered.  “I will.”

* * *

Legolas did not surrender to mortal sleep that night, but took his usual reverie.  He always dreamed of the sea, and the ocean waves seemed stronger than usual, storm-filled, tossing him here and there so that he could not find his feet.  But he kept his sense of his surroundings as well, and he could still feel Gimli’s arms around him, holding him snug and warm.

Still, he woke with a fluttering in his stomach—like a flock of sharp-winged creatures had taken up flapping residence there, churning his insides into water.  He disentangled himself from Gimli and sat up, drawing his knees to his chest and tucking in his chin.

Beside him, Gimli yawned, then stretched and sat up as well.  “Good morning,” he said.  “How are you?”

“Well enough.”  Physically it was true; he felt fully rested and restored from the day before.  “You?”

“Well also.”  Gimli tilted his head from side to side, as though testing his balance, and then smiled.  “And hungry.”

Those words were enough to shake Legolas from his disquiet, at least for the moment.  “That is wonderful news!” he said.  “Shall I fetch you something?”

Gimli considered.  “Not yet,” he said.  “I should like to rise and wash and dress—and then,” he smiled again, “perhaps we could go together to fetch it.”

So this was what it felt like to hope again.  Legolas had not even realized, over the last days, how much of his distress had come from Gimli’s illness—to see his husband so well in body and mind lifted his heart and his hopes, and he suddenly felt that Gimli had been right the night before.  All would be well!  Today they would question the dwarves, and they would determine whether it had been one of them.  If not, then they would resume their investigation.  But they would find out the identity of the criminal, and then Ithilien would be safe again, and they would restore relations between their people, and—and all would be well.  So long as Gimli was healed, it mattered not what else was amiss.

So he thought, anyway, until they left their small house and found Alma, Eleniel, and Celair waiting for them.

His heart dropped abruptly as though a string had snapped, and it took great effort even to raise the corners of his mouth to smile at them and return their greetings.

“We are in search of food,” said Gimli, squeezing Legolas’s arm.  He used it to hold himself upright, but hardly needed it, and Legolas searched in vain once more for the joy he had found in that observation only moments before.  “Will you join us?”

The other three fell into step beside them, and Gimli turned to Alma.  “Well, have you anything to report?”

She shrugged.  “I do not know.  I told them that they were to be questioned today, for we had determined that the poison must have come from near Erebor.”  She glanced up, as though seeking Gimli’s approval.  “I told them the identity of the poison, in the hopes that someone might react, but it is hard to say if anyone did.  I thought perhaps Frai might have glanced at Vinar, but it could have been accidental.”

Gimli nodded approvingly.  “That was well done,” he said.  They had reached Legolas’s pantry now—a series of metal boxes half-submerged in a freezing spring, to keep food cold, and a series of shelves built into trees where they stored nuts, dried fruit, and other foods that would not go bad.  “Now, what in here is safe to eat?”

They found some nut bread that Celair pronounced safe, and dried fruit that Legolas remembered preparing himself, and settled down to a simple breakfast.  That would be another reason to be glad when this was over—they would have no need to be so careful of what they ate, and could finally relax back into a sense of safety once more.

Legolas hoped.

But they had only just returned to the dining area near Legolas and Gimli’s home when they found someone waiting for them—this time by someone less welcome.

Frai stood outside the door of the small house, shifting from foot to foot and tugging at her beard.  Ester, one of the dwarves who had come with Alma—and who had evidently assigned to guard Frai in her errand—stood back, looking equally uncomfortable.

“I need to speak to you,” said Frai without preamble.  “All of you.”

* * *

They settled down before a table, the dwarves in chairs with cushions to raise them to its level, and Frai shook her head when they would have set out the food.  “Do not take that out yet!”

“Why?” asked Gimli.

She fidgeted, as though suddenly lacking the desire to speak.  “I am glad to see you on your feet again, my lord.”

“Thank you,” said Gimli.  “But I would be gladder to eat my breakfast in peace, so I would ask that you refrain from further pleasantries and tell me why you would not have it so.”

She took a breath and fidgeted with her beard once more.  “I… perhaps it would be best if I showed you.”

Legolas’s stomach fluttered again.  When Gimli nodded his permission, she reached into a pocket in her cloak and brought out a small pouch.

“What is this?” asked Alma.  “What does it hold?”

“The question would better be what it no longer holds,” said Frai.  She inhaled deeply again, and then looked straight at Gimli.  “Powder made from the root of the baneberry plant.”

Legolas was on his feet before he even knew.  “Then you—"

“I did not!” said Frai, before he could speak further.  “Please, Lord Legolas, believe me, I did not.”  She looked as though she might cry.  “I did not think to check its contents until last night, after Alma told us what had been used to poison Lord Gimli.  But I looked after she spoke to us, and found that the powder had been stolen from me.”

“Stolen?”  But that could have been done by anyone.  Was their one lead about to be lost?  Legolas thought he might weep himself if that was so.

“What interests me more,” said Celair, “is why you had poison on your person to begin with.”

“It is not always poison,” whispered Frai.  “It has medicinal uses my mother told me about: it can be taken in small doses to reduce pain on the monthly cycle.”

“Truly?” said Alma with interest.  “I had not heard of that use.”

“It can be dangerous if taken in excess, but if you know how to measure it, it can be done.”  Frai tucked the pouch back into her pocket.  “I suppose I should have remembered that it is poisonous, but we encounter it so rarely in Aglarond that it is easy to forget.  I should have told you earlier, but I was so consumed by my own fear and suspicion that I did not think I might have carried the very weapon on my person.”  She bowed to Gimli.  “I am sorry, my lord.”

“And you say it was stolen from you.”  Eleniel did not seem satisfied just yet, and Legolas was glad to let her speak while he struggled to find his own words.  “But why should we believe that you had this for benign reasons, Master Dwarf?  Why should we believe that you were not the criminal alone?”

“Because then the true criminal will continue to walk free.”  Frai still sounded too frightened to be defiant, but her words had the ring of truth to them.  “Can you not tell that I do not lie?  Can you not use your elvish truth-seeing abilities—"

Legolas let out a hollow laugh.  “If we had those, Frai, we would not be in this muddle to begin with.”  But he was inclined to believe her nonetheless.  “Still… I want to trust you.  I want to believe that you would not come stand before us and lie to our faces.  But that does not help us find out who might have stolen this from you.  Do you have any idea who might have done such a thing?”

“I have no evidence,” she said.  “But to the best of my knowledge, only one of my companions knew I carried it—he saw the pouch once and asked what it contained.  If he was truly the one, then I will never overcome the shame of answering truthfully, but I saw no harm in doing so at the time.”

Legolas’s heart thumped hard, and once more his head went light and giddy.  “Which companion?” he asked, wrapping his fingers around the edge of the table to hold himself steady.  “Whom do you think to have done this?”

The answer, when she gave it, had the same certainty as his own thoughts.  “Vinar.”

* * *

“With all due respect, my lord—"

“Enough.”

They sat once more at the base of the olive tree, but this time, the arrangement was a bit different.  Legolas, Gimli, Eleniel, Celair, and Alma sat in a half-circle, with Frai and Vinar on the other side, facing them.  It was not charitable of him, perhaps, but Legolas could not help the slight surge of vindictive satisfaction: for once the watchers were the ones outnumbered; after days of watching Legolas’s every move with suspicion and censure, at last they were on the other end of the gaze.

He knew, of course, that should they be wrong about Vinar the satisfaction would curdle into worse guilt than before, but for now he would ignore that nagging anxiety and focus on what was happening.

“But if you will not let me speak—"

“I have not even begun asking you questions, and already you think you have answers!”  Gimli raised his eyebrows, clearly not inclined to be forgiving.  “Very well; speak, then.”

Vinar opened his mouth, closed it again, and then burst out, “I do not understand why your suspicion would fall upon your own people before those who are not our kind!  Those who have never wanted us, and who surely have not begun now, whatever they might say!”

“Have I ever said my suspicion had fallen upon you?”

Vinar gestured, seemingly overcome with offense.  “It is obvious, my lord!  You surround us, as though to hand down an accusation with no evidence!”

“Even as you have happily done with many others?” cut in Legolas, unable to stay quiet, fury boiling within him.  “You do not speak like one who has no reason to be thought guilty.”

“Indeed,” said Gimli, before Vinar could respond.  “It is interesting to me, Vinar, that the day after my husband’s suspicion falls upon you, that yet another should come to me and offer further convincing evidence that you are to blame for the treachery here, and not one of my husband’s subjects at all.”

“Convincing evidence?” Vinar’s face twisted as he spoke.  “I think you seek evidence to blame one of your own people for this because you will not let justice be done to them!”  He waved a hand around, apparently to encompass the entire settlement of Ithilien and every elf who lived there.  “No, you will let them slip through any net, just like the snakes they are, always wriggling free of any accountability—"

“Accountability for the actions of another is not for us.”  Legolas would not stay silent, not when he knew with every part of himself that the dwarf before him was responsible for his distress—for his fear for Gimli’s very life!  “How fitting it is that you should call us snakes, the bane of your people, when those are the very names for the poison that _you_ used to sow hatred where trust should have been.  Even now you betray yourself in your anger that you will not succeed!”  He rose to his feet, no longer self-conscious about his height as he usually was around dwarves.  “Do you deny, then, that you did this?  Do you deny that you stole Frai’s powder and slipped it into your own lord’s food?  Do you deny that you set out to murder one of your own kind, solely so that you could shift the blame—"

“I never set out to kill!”

Vinar seemed to deflate after the words were out, as though he had not meant to speak them, but still the rage in his eyes did not disappear, smoldering rather than flaming.  “I knew the King Elessar was here,” he muttered.  “He would never have let Lord Gimli die—and nothing less would have drawn anyone’s attention.”  He glared around at all of them, as though determined, now that he had incriminated himself, to do so with as much self-righteousness as possible.  He did not seem to notice that Frai was inching away from him, and surely no one else could see the red haze that was washing over Legolas’s vision.  “Nothing less than the fear of death might have convinced any of you fools of the danger of this partnership!  Elves have never meant any good to dwarfkind; I would not stand by and watch another become bewitched by them and lead our people to ruin!  I would not—"

Legolas hit him.

He hardly noticed that he had moved until he heard the thud and felt the impact of flesh-padded bone against the palm of his hand.  And then there were voices behind him, dimly audible through the rushing of blood in his ears, and then Eleniel and Celair were lunging forward to pull him back.

He let them, though he did not take his eyes from Vinar’s own hate-filled ones, now watering as he lifted a hand to cup his cheekbone.  It would be bruised tomorrow, Legolas knew, and he felt no regret, but rather wished he had managed another blow to the other side.

“We are the bane of Durin’s folk, you say?” he hissed.  “Well, I say that the true bane of all of us are the people who are determined to let old hates poison new loves—and who are willing to kill to keep it thus.”  He subsided, breathing hard, letting himself be tugged back into his seat.  “People like you.”

“He is right,” said Gimli, and rested a calming hand on Legolas’s back.  “We will decide what to do with him later, but for now, I have no further desire to see his face.”  He waved to the guards who had escorted Frai and Vinar here.  “Take him out of my sight.”

Each guard took Vinar by an arm, but he did not resist as he was led away, perhaps knowing he was beaten.  Frai lingered, as though waiting for something, but she went too when Gimli gestured that she might leave—and then the five of them sat stunned for a time.

Finally, Gimli roused himself enough to take Legolas’s hand in both of his, spreading his fingers and examining his palm for any bruises.  The sting of the impact lingered a bit, but not even enough to show up on his skin.

“You should not have done that,” Gimli said at last.

“I am…” Legolas hesitated.  Vinar’s face, twisted with rage and hate, burned again behind his eyes.  “Not sorry.”

Gimli let out a short but hearty laugh, and the sound of it caught somewhere high up in Legolas’s chest.  “Good,” Gimli said, and brought Legolas’s palm to his lips to place a whiskery kiss against the heel.  “For I never said that I did not enjoy watching it.”

Legolas’s belly warmed in response to the heat in Gimli’s voice, surprising him with its suddenness—but ah, he was so glad to see Gimli well again!

“Enough of that,” said Celair.  “Save it for later, if you can.”

Alma giggled.  “Yes.  Now we must decide what is to be done with Vinar.”

“I wish him dead,” Legolas said immediately, but then sighed and slumped once the words were out of his mouth.  “But I suppose that is not how we ought to treat with this crime, especially not if we do not wish to widen the divide that caused it.”

“I think not,” said Eleniel.  “After all we have agonized about what we feared to have happened, I think it best if we do not mark the ten-year anniversary of Ithilien with bloodshed, particularly not the blood of a dwarf—traitor though he might be.”

“Traitor indeed,” Gimli mused.  “I wonder what he had expected to happen, truly I do.  You would never have discovered with certainty that the criminal was an elf of Ithilien—had he counted on suspicion never falling upon himself?”

“He would have blamed us for finding nothing,” said Celair.  “We saw already that the dwarves who accompanied you thirsted for vengeance, and were prepared to fault us for delivering them nothing immediately.  Doubtless he would have wrested the control of the investigation from our hands, and then someone would have turned up guilty, whatever they claimed.”

“Well,” said Legolas slowly.  He was remembering many of the things that had been spoken at the beginning.  “One of the first demands from your companions was that the guilty party be turned over to them, when the identity was discovered.  Perhaps that is what we ought to do—though the crimes were committed against Ithilien as well as Aglarond, we will give them what they wanted, and hand the criminal over to them for their version of justice.  Then none, at least, can say that our people have wronged one another.”

“That would be fitting,” said Gimli.  “And my people can be quite… creative, when the mood strikes them.”

Alma grinned, showing all her teeth.  “That we can.”  She made to rise.  “Shall I go and inform our companions?”

“Please do.”  Gimli nodded.  “And tell them that I will come to speak with them later, after I have seen to a few things.”

Seen to… oh.  Gimli’s foot nudged Legolas’s calf gently, and he understood.  “And Eleniel, Celair—if you would go among the others here.  Tell them the guilty party has been found, and that there will be no need to continue with the interviews.”  Memories of days spent beneath this very tree flashed before his eyes, and he winced.  “Oh—and if you would thank them for their patience throughout all this.  And perhaps inform them that the leavings from the feast are still safe for elves to eat.”  Was there anything else that needed to be said?  “And—"

Eleniel laughed.  “We will,” she said, cutting him off and rising to her feet.  “We will go now, and leave you two alone.”  Her gaze traveled between Legolas and Gimli, and she winked.  “Do not strain yourselves too much.”

Legolas shot to his feet.  “Eleniel!” he protested, but she only laughed at him and fled, Celair following somewhat more sedately behind her.

Gimli laughed as well: warm, rich, the most beautiful sound Legolas would ever hear.  “Not too much,” he said, and stroked his thumb over Legolas’s hand, “but just enough.”


	10. Chapter 10

They stood in their bedroom, doors and shutters closed again to the outside world, but this time for reasons only of love and relief.  Gimli looked down at the bed.  “You know I love your home, Legolas,” he said, “and I do not love it any less for this.  But I think I may have grown to hate this bed.”

“Ah, have you?”  Legolas moved to sit on the bed, tugging Gimli forward to stand between his legs, and moved his hands to Gimli’s hips.  “Perhaps we ought to give you a new memory.”

“Hmm.”  Gimli’s voice grew lower and huskier; he leaned forward until the hairs of his beard and mustache brushed against Legolas’s lips.  “Perhaps you are right.”

The first kisses were long and slow and warm, relearning ease and gladness and comfort where fear had tried so ardently to consume them.  But that was not enough for Legolas; luxurious warmth blazed high into desperate, consuming flame, and he was clutching at Gimli’s back, ripping at his clothes – needing to feel Gimli’s vitality and warmth against him, the dwarf’s heavy weight and strength on top of him.  This was not their usual position but today he needed it, needed that reminder and reassurance that Gimli was truly well, that he would not fade away or fall limp beneath Legolas’s weight and refuse to rise again, ever again—

“Legolas,” said Gimli, and then his hands were around Legolas’s wrists and his body was pinning him to the bed, “Legolas, calm down, be easy,” and Legolas realized that he was gasping, that his chest was heaving, that his clawing hands had torn seams at the collar of Gimli’s tunic without successfully removing it.

He struggled against Gimli’s grip, remembering at last why they so rarely lay like this; Gimli released him immediately and dropped onto his side on the bed, arms out and open.  Legolas rolled right into them, and Gimli held him.

Yes, this was what he wanted, just this, and he shuddered a sob into Gimli’s neck, the warmth of his own breath filling the space between the hairs of Gimli's beard.  “I hate,” he said, then had to stop to breathe again.  “I hate,”

“Shh,” Gimli soothed him.  His thumbs came up to the nape of Legolas’s neck, small gentle circles that pushed free a week of stored tension, softening it to something that could finally spill free.

“I hate,” Legolas tried again, and hiccupped another sob.

“Wait until you are ready,” Gimli tried to persuade him, but Legolas shook his head.  He did not want to wait.

“I-hate-losing-you.”  The words came out as though tied together, in the space between stuttering breaths, and then he fisted his hands in Gimli’s ripped clothing and gasped in another.  “Every time—"

“You did not,” Gimli reminded him, tucking a kiss into his hair.  “You have not.”

Legolas shook his head in frustration.  “Every time,” he insisted, “I do—every time.”  Every time he feared for Gimli’s life, he lived it again: the future that lay before him, the certainty of eternal loss.  He could forget it sometimes, could push it back into the murky place in the depths of his mind, where all the unheeded fears lurked—but this one would not stay down for long and surged up again and again, to menace him with reminders of what would one day be.  And never was it so prominent as at times like these, when Gimli’s mortality was so ruthlessly displayed before him.  “I can’t—cannot bear—"

“Shh,” Gimli said again, and this time Legolas listened.  He stopped trying to speak, tried to quiet even his sobbing breaths, though he could not stop the occasional whimper that slipped past his control.  “I know your fear, my love.  I do.  I do not fear it with the same certainty that you do, but I know it.”  His hands were in Legolas’s hair, now, massaging at his scalp and then following the hair to the ends.  Legolas paid attention to the motions, trying to slow his breathing to the length of the long strokes.  “But because I know that fear, I beg you to trust that I will not let it take you.”  Another kiss, to Legolas’s temple this time, and then a brush of the lips over the damp corner of his eye.  “So long as there is breath in my body, I will fight to keep it there.  I will not let something so petty as one person’s bitterness—built though it may be on thousands of years as hate—tear me from your side.”

Legolas’s heart was slowing its frantic pace; at last he felt he could draw enough breath into his body to keep up with it.  He inhaled, long and deep, his chest expanding against Gimli’s, and then let out a shuddering sigh, cushioning his head closer against Gimli’s beard.

“Do you believe me?” Gimli asked him.

“I try,” Legolas whispered against his collarbone.  “Every day, I try.”

“We live in a world where love is stronger than hate,” Gimli reminded him.  “And we are stronger than those who would keep us apart, no matter who those may be.”  His finger and thumb came up through Legolas’s hair once more to meet at the point of his ear, and Legolas’s body went icy hot, the wave of sensation clearing away the fear, the pain, the threat of loss.  Pushing them back down, at least until another day.  “Do you believe me?”

Legolas nodded.  He uncurled his neck, tilted his head back up until he could steal a kiss from Gimli’s lips.  When he opened his eyes, dry at last, he saw Gimli’s looking back at him: clear again, warm with love and sparkling with life.

“Yes,” he breathed.  “Yes, I do.”


End file.
